The Last Laugh
by The Cleric
Summary: In 19th century England, Detective Bruce Wayne embarks on his most daring mystery yet when he is hired by Lady Diana Princeton to track down a fiendish murderer known only as 'The Joker'.
1. Mr Wayne Takes the Case

"You are lying," stated the detective, his eyes darkening with a special scowl reserved for criminals of the worst sort. The smooth, dapper smile of the man on the receiving end of the interrogation only broadened.

"I suppose you have proof, Mr. Wayne, of my allege fabrication? As I told you and the Constabulary and Scotland Yard and every other bloody detective in Her Majesty's Kingdom, Winston here attacked my person, intending to do me bodily harm. He would surely have rent me limb from limb had I not, after having been knocked down perilously close to the fireplace in my study, grabbed a poker stick and stabbed him through with it. That is simply all there is to tell. Now I of course did not intend for my dear brother Winston to die, but as it stands I'm willing to live with that, considering I acted in self-defense."

Bruce looked at the two Constables in the room, disappointed that they were foolish enough to consider that Marcus Jeffries might actually be telling the truth. The holes in his recounting were legion, and even a simpleton could have spotted them. He backed away from the table, lulling Marcus into a sense of false security. "So, you are saying that you were beneath your brother at the time that you impaled him?"

Marcus scowled at Detective Wayne's choice of words. "Yes."

"Facing him?"

"Yes."

"You lie on both counts. The wound that killed him was inflicted from behind, and at a downward angle. He is a full eight inches taller than you, Mr. Jeffries I find it hard to believe that even a man of your talents could inflict a downward blow into a man's back while he is charging you and you are facing him."

"Is that so? Tell me, how can you prove the wound was inflicted from behind?"

"Simple science. Had you stabbed Winston whilst he was facing you, the poker surely would have pushed out the skin and other bodily components in its way through the exit wound in his back. Of course, this type of exit wound was on Winston's chest, not his back."

"Circumstantial fluff," Marcus sputtered, his calm demeanor evaporating.

"Perhaps, perhaps not. Regardless, these fine officers of the law are now going to take you into custody for now. You may argue your innocence in front of a judge when your court date is set. Perhaps you will have more luck convincing him."

And so, with a quick nod and a tip of his hat, Bruce Thomas Wayne was on his way.

Lady Diana Princeton was most certainly a recognizable figure in the community, the daughter of its two richest aristocrats and a ravishing beauty to boot. With long, lustrous dark hair, sparkling blue eyes, and a host of other compelling features, Lady Diana was the envy of all the local young women as well as the desire of most of the young men. Most men would certainly be delighted to find such a beautiful woman in his home.

Bruce Wayne was merely annoyed.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, barely managing to temper his voice. Of all things that he valued most, it was the privacy of his inner sanctum, the Wayne House (jokingly referred to as the Bats' Cave because of the many flying rodents that inhabited the place).

Diana, who was outrageously seated at his very own desk, peered at him demurely over the top of the book she was reading from his study. "Interesting," she said as she scanned the pages. "I must say, Sir Wayne, that this is truly remarkable reading that you have in your library. 'Fingerprinting?' 'Ballistics?'. . .most fascinating indeed."

Bruce was at a complete loss what to say, everything that came to mind being words he would surely regret later. Still, who could blame. The temerity . . .prancing into his study and perusing his books. He'd never met a woman with such gall.

"I assure you sir," said a familiar voice, "that her reasons for being here more than merit your time."

"Alfred," Bruce said, turning. 'Why did you let her in?"

"He didn't," Diana answered. "Surely a detective such as yourself has heard of picking locks."

Bruce scowled, somewhat surprised that his legendary glare which made criminals whimper in fear had absolutely no effect on Diana Princeton. "The place come if you wish to hire my services is my office, not my home," he said. "Come back tomorrow."

"You weren't there, and it is past closing hours already. I cannot wait until the morrow, as this is a matter of utmost importance. Please, take a seat and I will explain.

Bruce was struck at the irony of it, even as he pulled up a stool. A woman he'd barely just met was sitting in his house giving him orders, a situation that made him uncomfortable from the start. That, and the fact that despite his own formidable resolve he was finding himself ever so slightly entranced by Lady Diana's beauty. He had seen her before, of course, but never this close or while carrying on a conversation. The sooner she was gone, he decided, the better.

"It all began around a month ago," she was saying. "My mother, long an activist for the rights of women founded an organization known as Daughters of the Amazon. "The Amazons were-"

"A society comprised solely of warrior women, led by Queen Hippolyta. In the Greek myth, they practiced the removal of one breast, so as to better improve skills with the bow and arrow."

Diana blushed. "I can assure you that my mother's organization does not take after the traditional Amazons in all respects."

"I should hope not. A society filled only with women is ridiculous in the extreme. It would topple within a day, as its armies would doubtless idle their time away spreading gossip and drinking tea or embroidery or some other such nonsense."

"I take it you don't think much of women."

"On the contrary, I think very much of them. I simply don't go as far as to believe that roles clearly intended for men should be taken up by women."

Diana frowned. "For someone so progressive concerning science and detection, your thinking is remarkably backwards when it concerns other matters. Times are changing, Mr. Wayne. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but someday, one's gender will not define their place in life, what they can or cannot do."

"Perhaps, regardless, that is a debate for another day and another person, one much more tolerant of impudent women breaking into their offices than I am. Now, as I recall, you were supposed to be telling me what exactly brought you to my door."

"Ah. Yes. Well, my mother formed Daughters of the Amazon and organized the first meeting about a month ago. There were about two dozen ladies in attendance, all very excited at the talk of being able to own property, divorce, vote, earn equal wages, etcetera."

"I sounds to me as though the service of a psychiatrist are needed, not a detective."

Diana gave a humorless smile. "A detective," she said, "is needed because two days ago, three of our members were found beaten, violated, and murdered in a most humiliating and gruesome manner."

Bruce's expression instantly became sober. "This is terrible," he said, "but wouldn't the Constabulary or Scotland Yard be more suited to this type of job."

"Unfortunately, not. This murderer confounds them at every turn, leaving only a singular clue: the Joker from a deck of cards. Your skills are undisputed and your accomplishments as a detective legendary. If anyone were to be able to help in this matter, it would be you."

An empty maw burrowed into Bruce's mind as he realized the implications. The Joker . . .the same card that had been left on the body of his brutally murdered parents. Jackson Cale, the disgruntled circus clown responsible for their robbery and murder had been hanged, so surely it couldn't be him. Whoever it was, though, left an identical calling card.

"This," he said, his mouth dry, "is certainly a most grievous situation. I will gladly take your case."

The smile that he received from her was ample reward. Tearing his gaze away from his unexpected visitor, he turned to regard his butler who had watched the entire conversation. "Alfred," he said, "Prepare my cane, and toolbelt. Tomorrow, I shall begin investigating into the matter."

Diana nodded graciously. "Thank you, Sir Wayne. I am sure that with your help, this Joker may be brought to justice once and for all." With that, she bade him goodbye and departed into the night.


	2. A Fairly Decent Proposal

"Welcome ladies, gentlemen, and children of all ages. Prepare this night to feast your eyes upon feats of daring, skill, and magic not seen for a thousand years. No bars can bind him, no cage can contain him, no ropes can restrain him! I present to you . . .Mr. Miracle!"

A tall, slender man in a yellow suit stepped out from behind the stage, bowing graciously to the crowd. Next, a striking dark-haired woman, appeared, wheeling a cylindrical tank of water. She was taller even than her partner and wore a long, black dress with matching gloves that covered most of her arms.

"Thank you, thank you," said Mr. Miracle. "Although I would hold my applause for when and if I escape this new trap. My lovely partner, Barda, will explain."

"Gladly," said the woman, Barda. She had a husky, yet feminine voice that carried well in the building. "This tank," said Barda, is made out of the strongest glass known to man." Somehow, she produced a revolver from her dress. "Observe." She fired a single round at the glass. The report was deafening, the muzzle flash blinding. But there wasn't a scratch on the glass. Nor was there with the second shot. Or the third. Or the fourth. Or the fifth. Or the sixth. Even Bruce Wayne, who was quite well versed in modern scientific technology in the area of bulletproofing, was taken aback. He made a mental note to find out where such a stable type of glass had come from and procure some of his own.

"Now that we have demonstrated how unbreakable this substance is," continued Barda, "I do believe that my husband wants to take a swim."

'Yes," concurred Scott. "It's so hot outside after all. I could use a good swim." The crowd broke out in laughter, of course, since the temperature outside was freezing.

Bruce watched as Mr. Miracle serenely climbed into the cylindrical water tank so that he was suspended upside down. Barda put her ear to the glass and smiled. "He says the water is perfect," reported Barda, receiving more laughs. She screwed the top back on the tank. "Now my dear husband will somehow escape from this tank in the next twenty seconds. The glass is unbreakable and the only way out is through the top, which has six different locks, all of which he must pick before air runs out. The bolts on each lock can be seen on the outside of the container, so you will be able to keep track of his progress. That said, begin counting."

Bruce was impressed. He knew quite a bit about the various tricks escape artists used to fool audiences, but had seen none of this deception in Mr. Miracle's performance. Even Bruce couldn't pick six locks in twenty seconds deprived of oxygen.

A shadow flickered in the corner of the stage and Bruce's sense tingled. Who else was on stage, he wondered a brief instant before all hell broke loose.

The bloodcurdling cry that echoed throughout the amphitheater chilled even Wayne's bones, even when he realized that the horrific was laughter.

A green haired white man leapt on the stage. Not white as in Caucasian.. White as in white. As if he'd been colored with chalk. A maniacal smile adorned his face, lips outlined in red. He wore a purple suit with a green flower at the lapel. The visage looked familiar, but Bruce pushed that tickling thought out of his mind. The most important thing was, this man had a gun.

Even as Bruce, along with security, began racing onstage, The green-haired man calmly took aim and leveled his weapon at Barda's head. He was about three feet away, and unless he was terrible at shooting, the long-barreled firearm he held would easily put a bullet in Barda's forehead.

"Everyone calm down," commanded the man, "or Big Barda here gets to play 'dodge the bullet.'

Bruce stayed put, palming one of his bat-shaped shiruken, custom-made in Istanbul from a Japanese weapons expert. He wasn't on stage yet, and at this range he couldn't launch the throwing star without risking hitting Barda. Of course, there was also the consideration of Mr. Miracle, who was still inside the tank, albeit with three of the locks already picked.

The green-haired man squashed any hope of Mr. Miracle escaping, however, by twisting around Barda and hopping onto the lid of the water tank, all in one fluid motion.

"What are you doing?" cried Barda, concern for her husband overriding the fear at having a gun pointed to her head.

"Killing your husband," replied the man nonchalantly. "You as well, if all of those gentlemen with guns aimed at me, I count six, do not step onto the stage and surrender their firearms."

Having no choice but to comply, the theater's security guards reluctantly stepped onstage and surrendered their weapons. Wayne frowned at this. The deranged man was obviously much more competent than he appeared, though his motive for killing an escape artist was anyone's guess. Still, something had to be done, or Mr. Miracle really would die.

So Wayne launched his first shiruken, the spinning star knocking the gun clean out of the madman's hands and also causing him to topple over the side of the tank. Wasting no time, the detective raced up to the stage and yanked the lid off of the water tank. Scott was alive, but out cold. He pushed the tank over, spilling the water out onto the floor and seating area. Just as he was about to begin resuscitating Mr. Miracle though, a blow crashed into the side of his head, flipping him onto his back and making him see stars.

The green-haired man kicked at him again with what would surely have been a permanently damaging blow had Bruce not rolled out of the way. Instinctively, he sprang to his feet and launched a back kick, feeling the gratifying impact when he connected with the assailant's face. He quickly gave Scott the necessary aid and then checked over his shoulder, were constables were already flooding onstage to chase the green-haired man down. He was already hopping offstage though, spreading a trail of indiscriminate gunfire to ward off pursuers, the steady boom of his pistol offset by the maniacal laughter that he left in his wake. It was one of the most unsettling things Bruce had ever heard.

Ten minutes later, with Mr. Miracle having recovered from his near drowning and his wife comforting him, Bruce stepped behind the grandiose stage and into the small, nondescript-looking room to the right.

Behind the curtain stood a petite, dark-haired beauty, perhaps in her mid-twenties. She was dressed, as usual, in her outrageously revealing outfit consisting of a top hat, a blue suit and white blouse that was tucked into black shorts, and finely meshed fishnet stockings. The ensemble was completed by a pair of black pumps that added a few inches to her height. To most of the town, it was simply scandalous for her to wear such lacking attire, but her magic show business boomed anyway, so it was of little consequence to Zatanna.

To her credit, the infamous Mistress of Magic did not look surprised to see him. "Bruce," she greeted, "it is so wonderful to see you."

"And you as well, Zatanna," he replied politely. "I'm actually rather surprised that you aren't out on the stage, attending to the disaster that just occurred."

Zatanna nodded. "I have been rather ill lately," she explained. "Not feeling up to performing my usual duties, which is why I had an employee introduce the show. I had actually just completed a meditation when I heard the rather loud commotion outside." She took a pause to walk to the curtained exit. "I had probably better get out there right now in fact. Come along."

Bruce nodded, replaying the events that had just happened in his mind. He had not come to the theater anticipating such a display, but rather merely to talk with his old friend Zatanna.

The lady herself took a few moments to issue commands to various underlings and make sure that Scott and Barda were holding up well enough before turning back to Bruce. "I'm terribly sorry that the one time you actually took me up on an invitation to see one of the shows, you were met with an attempted murder on one of the performers. I can assure you, it is not a regular occurrence."

Bruce smiled at that. "Were it not for the fact that Mr. Miracle almost died, it would have been a rather entertaining performance, actually."

"Tell me though, why did you really come? Last that I remember, you had a very acute disdain for magic and the like."

"I actually came to talk with you."

Zatanna's head lowered and her eyebrows went up. "Really. Well, I must say, I'm flattered, and all the more embarrassed that you should have had to witness such a spectacle."

"Its not a social call," said Bruce. "In fact, I wanted to inquire about the very man who attacked the performers a few minutes ago."

Zatanna looked shocked. "You think that lunatic is connected to me?"

"No, nothing of the sort. His attire and composure are reminiscent of a circus clown though, and you are the owner of all such attractions nearby. I thought that if anyone might recognize him, it would be you."

Zatanna shrugged. "I am terribly sorry to disappoint you then. I have never seen that man in my life, and I am certain that there are no murderous clowns in my employ."

The last words were said somewhat quieter. Women, technically, could not own businesses, but Zatanna had managed a loophole around that particular law, setting up a sort of puppet ownership with a male as the visible owner but herself actually calling the shots. Despite his own opinions, Bruce had never given her trouble about it because she was one of the few women that he truly respected, and she was just as capable a manager as any male he'd ever seen.

"What about Jackson Cale?" he asked.

"The man who killed your parents?"

"Yes."

"I thought he was dead."

"Have you seen or heard anything that might indicate otherwise?" Bruce pressed.

Zatanna pursed her lips in concentration. "Actually, now that you mention it I have heard rumors that he was still running about, but nothing reliable mind you. As far as I am concerned, the man is dead, and has been for over a decade."

"I think its possible that he is the man who recently violated and murdered several young women and just now attempted to kill your resident escape artist. That both Jackson Cale and the madman who disrupted the show were both clowns of a sort seems like a rather large coincidence. And this is the type of random violence that Cale was known for. I can't ignore the possibly."

"I would say that's ridiculous, but you have a habit of being right about these things," sighed Zatanna. She glanced at Bruce out of the corner of her eye. "Who are you working for?" she asked him.

"One of the Princeton girls, Diana, I believe."

Zatanna arched a brow, tipping her ever-present top hat back. "You must be charging a lot with a client like that."

Bruce shook his head. "This one is free. Murder is a crime worth solving on its own merit, and I certainly do not require the motivation of money to-"

"Bruce!" a familiar voice interrupted from behind. He turned around just in time to see Diana herself weave between two constables and into view. "Bruce," she repeated, not needing to speak as loud this time. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same," he replied.

"The answer would be that I am looking for you," Diana retorted, anger tinting her features, yet somehow making them even more appealing. "I had thought you were solving a case, not sightseeing in some run-down magic playhouse."

Zatanna scowled at the newcomer. "Interesting, Bruce," she said, even though her gaze was boring into Diana. "Your client here is just as rude as she is filthy rich."

"Both of you, cam down," Bruce ordered. "Diana, this is an old friend of mine, Zatanna. Zatanna, Diana. The reason I came here was to ask Zatanna, who owns this establishment, about a suspicion I have concerning the murders. I assure, I am not wasting time or idling away with irrelevant tasks. Now why were you looking for me?"

Diana calmed down a bit, although the glances she directed towards Zatanna were nothing short of venomous. "I have a theory on the murders," she said evenly. "I wanted to run them by you." The way she said 'you' indicated clearly that she wanted Zatanna to leave, and Zatanna's posture indicated the exact opposite.

Bruce, however, nodded. "Perhaps we should discuss it in my office, then," he said. "Zatanna, if you hear anything or get one of your premonitions, inform me immediately."

Zatanna gave a curt nod. "Of course."

"Thank you."

"You are quite welcome. Feel free to visit."

"I will." And with a tip of his hat, Bruce and Diana were on their way.

"There was no reason to insult her," Bruce admonished once the two had left the theater.

"I did no such thing. My comments were directed towards her establishment, not the lady herself. Besides, if she does not wish to be insulted, she should not prance around in her underwear like some street tramp."

"The two of us are just friends, you know. Your jealousy is completely misplaced.

"You are mentally unfit if you think I've entertained a jealous thought about you, Mr. Wayne."

"The lady doth protest too much," quoted Bruce, surprising even himself with the ease in which he was able to engage in this verbal sparring.

"Pride goeth before the fall," quoted Diana right back at him, unable to stop from smiling. Even the corners of Bruce's mouth seemed to rise a bit.

As they neared the office, Bruce's demeanor grew more serious. "You said you had a theory," he recalled out loud. "What was it?"

"I think I may know why those three particular members of our organization were singled out. Earlier this year, there was a high-profile rape and murder case."

"The McGcovern Murders?"

"Yes. Those were the members of our organization whose activism and hard work were instrumental in handing down a guilty verdict. I think maybe Frederick McGovern hired someone to get revenge."

"What about the playing card left behind?"

Diana shrugged. "Who knows?"

Bruce contemplated this silently for a moment. "I agree that the selection of those particular girls was probably due in part to the McGovern Murders. I don't think it was McGovern himself who precipitated this though. He had no money to begin with, and hiring an assassin from inside a jail cell cannot be a cheap affair. Besides, there were others much more instrumental in his conviction than these young women. If he wanted revenge, they would seem to be the more likely targets."

"But who does that leave? Please do not tell me that you still think the man who murdered your father is guilty. Aside from having absolutely no motive, he has a better alibi. He's dead."

He also had a habit for insane killings that only made sense in a twisted light. With a taste of irony to it. My father was killed during a campaign promoting his company's new lifesaving technology. Ironic? Yes. So is the rape and murder of three young women who dedicated their lives to ensuring women would not have to go through such horror. Even today, when this man attempted to kill Zatanna's best escape artist-"

"You are losing me," interrupted Diana as Bruce stopped to open the door.

"You must have come late then. The reason for all the chaos you witnessed upon entering the theater was that a man clad in outlandish clothes burst onstage during the performance and attempted to drown Mr. Miracle inside of his own water tank. As morbid as the thought does seem, I must admit that there is a grotesque logic, or rather humor, to the idea of killing an escape artist by imprisoning him inside of his own chamber. The same kind of irony that can be seen in the circumstances of my father's murder and the murder of your associates." Finishing with the lock, Bruce stepped aside to allow his companion entry. Once she was inside, he locked the door.

"Your office is so much more pleasant than your home," said Diana frankly.

"Why is that?"

Diana shrugged. "It has much better illumination," she explained, taking in the pleasant, crème-colored walls and carpeted floor of the spacious area that they were standing in. "I suppose I simply prefer places that are not so ominous and don't have flying rodent infestations."

Bruce took a seat on one of the sofas and indicated that she should sit down on the one facing it. "Can I get you anything?" he asked.

Diana looked around. "You have food here?"

"Yes, and tea. Imported. All in the back room."

Diana nodded in comprehension. "No, nothing right now."

"Very well then. Let us begin."

"I was thinking about your fee," said Diana. "Would a thousand pounds be sufficient?"

Bruce was already shaking his head. "This is strictly pro bono," he said. "I am not doing this for money."

"Which is admirable, but you still deserve compensation, Mr. Wayne. I couldn't begin to ask you to do this free of charge."

Bruce frowned at the way she had reverted to his more formal name. "We can discuss it once the case is solved," he said briskly. "Anything else?"

"As a matter of fact, yes." Diana reached into her handbag and produced a card. It was fancy. Laced. Like an invitation?"

"What is this?" asked Bruce, accepting the card.

"An invitation. My family is hosting its annual Princeton Ball. I want you to come."

Bruce handed the invitation back to her. "I am not a Ball kind of person," he said simply.

Diana shook her head, refusing to take it back. "Just come," she said. "I promise that no one will look down on you."

"You must know that I am not popular in the well-to-do circles because of my vocation of choice. Detective, not a businessman like my father. I am seen as a spoiled brat by some who squandered his family legacy to play sleuth."

"It can never hurt to foster relations with the important people of the city that you live in. Besides, some of the people who will be there have such immense resources . . .I'm sure that could only be beneficial to you in the future."

"Ms. Princeton, the invitation is nice, but I can tell you crafted it yourself. Your family has not invited me, and cannot simply show up at such an event without a legitimate invitation."

"You could go with me," Diana pressed. "As my escort. You would be welcomed with open arms." The look in her eyes changed to pleading. "Please."

Bruce relented, keeping the fabricated invitation. Part of him screamed that the whole thing would be an impractical waste of time, but the other part was genuinely intrigued, not only at the prospect of fathering more information but also of being Lady Princeton's escort. He possessed no feelings for her-of that he was certain. It was an interesting idea nonetheless. "I will do it," he said, "but just this once. And only because of the potential of gaining new information, so don't get any . . .ideas."

Diana gave a ladylike snort. "You either, Bruce," she shot back, reverting to his first name.

"Then the matter is settled." Bruce glanced out the widow to see snow falling, tiny, pristine flakes descending from the sky. Soon the snow would coat every roof, lamppost, and other exposed surface in the city. The temperature would also drop to very uncomfortable amounts and there was a blizzard forthcoming. "For now, I think that we both could use some rest. I for one have had a rather hectic day, and those clouds outside seem to indicate that malevolent weather is soon to come."

Diana nodded. "You are right, of course. I should be leaving."

"Do you need me to take you back to your home?"

Normally, Diana would have refused. It wasn't as if she needed his protection-she was an extremely capable woman who was far stronger than she looked and had learned early on from her mother how to defend herself. Bringing him along was not necessary for her safety, but she had gradually discovered over the course of the past day that Wayne was a very intriguing man to talk to, despite his borderline arrogant manner. He was also far nicer to look at than a monotonous snow-covered city. "That would be nice," Diana found herself saying. She was pleasantly surprised when Wayne . . .no, Bruce, smiled back. He ordinarily attractive features became breathtaking when he smiled. She wished he would do it more often.

And then, just like that, the smile was gone. It was as if he'd caught himself being too friendly or too sociable, and was retracting back into his normal, unsmiling persona. "Let us hurry then," said Bruce, walking to the door. "And try to get some sleep. I have a feeling that things will become quite interesting in the days to come."


	3. A Dead Man and a Calling Card

**Warning: Gets a bit violent, definitely not for the squeamish. **

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* * *

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**Three Days Later**

"Diana!" came a breathless report from the foot of the stairs. "Guess who has come to visit!"

She recognized the excitement in the voice of Annabeth, Princeton family maid and close friend to Diana. Still, she couldn't fathom why such a fuss was being made. Diana rarely had surprise visitors, and when she did the individual in question was often sent on their way fairly quickly.

Still, curious, she peeked over the ornate oak railing, seeing a hurried Annabeth below dusting away imaginary particles. "Please, don't trouble yourself," she called down. "Whoever it is-" The words caught in her throat when a tall, blond man stepped through the large front doors of her family's mansion, hat respectfully held in gloved hands. He was dapper and dressed expensively, though not gaudily. He wore a flawless smile, even white teeth, dimples, and a tanned complexion from his military service on the Asian continent.

Diana stood erect, making no move to rush down and greet him. "Steven," she said simply.

If the man was rebuffed by her cool greeting, he showed no sign of it. "Actually, it's Admiral Trevor now," he said smoothly, just a hint of pride in his voice. "And may I say, you look stunning Diana."

She nodded graciously. "Congratulations on your advancement. When did you return to London?"

"Just this morning, as a matter of fact," he said. "I must admit, I was ravenously homesick during my year amongst the heathens. It's possible I missed you most of all."

"I'm sure. Though certainly, you have more important business to attend to than coming to see me."

"Nonsense." He paused. "Come now, Diana, can we not speak face to face?"

As much as she didn't want to extend their impromptu meeting, overt rudeness was not her style. "We can," she said evenly, walking down the spiraled staircase to the ground floor. Steven's eyes were not lecherous, but she still did not appreciate the way he seemed to take her in. Most thought she was mad to have spurned his advances thus far, Colonel- no- Admiral Trevor being the best catch around town as single men went. Truth be told she probably wasn't altogether sane in her reticence toward him, but he simply didn't spark her interest or passions.

When she reached foot of the staircase he immediately stepped toward her and enveloped her in a warm hug, which she hesitantly returned. "Steven," she lightly admonished.

"What?" he pulled back enough to fully take her in, hands still on her shoulders. "Am I not allowed to embrace the woman around whom my thoughts have revolved day and night?"

She averted her eyes under his intense gaze. "Steven, you remain ever the flatterer."

"It's not flattery," he insisted, reaching up to cup her cheek. She stiffened, but resisted the urge to pull away. "Diana, allow me to show you my newest estate. It's lovely, less than a day's ride away to the south."

"Newest estate?" Diana was genuinely surprised.

"Yes, a return on some recent investments I've made. I purchased the plot just two weeks ago, and I still have yet to see it- though I've been assured it's quite lovely."

Diana cocked her head to the side. "I never figured you for a businessman, Steven."

He laughed. "I'd hardly call myself entrepreneurial yet, but I have made a few savvy deals here and there. They've paid off quite handsomely."

"Indeed," murmured Diana.

"But you still avoid the question. I really would like to show you my new lands."

She flashed a diplomatic smile. "I shall consider it strongly Steven. It sounds like great fun."

"It will be," he promised, clasping her shoulders again. "I guarantee it."

* * *

"I suppose you've heard the news then, Master Bruce."

Bruce Wayne barely allowed this cryptic comment a glance away from the contents of his worktable. "Heard what news, Alfred?" he asked distractedly.

Alfred set down the cup of warm, imported tea he brought for Bruce. "Steven Trevor has returned, sir."

Bruce paused, clearly needing a moment to process this new information. "Back to Gotham?"

"You sound surprised."

"I am." Bruce stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I wonder what he's up to."

Alfred arched an eyebrow. "Must he be 'up to' anything? As I recall the two of you were once rather close."

"As children," cut in Bruce. "Certainly not since."

"Well rumor has it that the good admiral has his eye on a certain Diana Princeton. Fetching as she is, perhaps he simply came back to whisk her away before anyone else could throw their hat in their ring."

Bruce shook his head dismissively. "I assure you, I am not the slightest bit interested in that woman."

"As you say, Master Bruce." Alfred was unconvinced.

Suddenly, flipped up the item on his worktable, a cane, pointed it at the cup of tea placed down by Alfred, and pressed a concealed lever on the side of the handle. With a whoosh of displaced air, a projectile flew out of the cane's tip, shattering the teacup and embedding itself into a painting on the far wall.

"Master Bruce!" cried Alfred.

The young detective smiled triumphantly. "By Jove, it works!"

"What works?" demanded the butler.

"A propulsion system I've been working on. You see, applied properly, compressed air can be harnessed to unleash astounding force. Pneumatic energy, it's astounding really." He reached and gently strummed what appeared to be thin air.

It wasn't. As Alfred peered closer he could see the vibrating filament, like a thick guitar string, stretching from the tip of the cane to the wall behind the ruined portrait.

He inhaled sharply. "Some kind of grappling device, Master Bruce?"

"Well, yes." He strummed the wire again. "Look at that tensile strength, I'd bet it could support the weight of a fully grown man."

The good butler chuckled. "Master Bruce, if you perish trying to swing from the rooftops on some overblown fishing rod, I myself shall die of embarrassment."

"A fact which I promise to keep firmly in mind," replied Bruce jauntily. "It's not perfected yet, but I am very excited about this one. Imagine the possibilities."

"Well it has cost you a cup of tea, as I certainly will not be preparing another. Might I recommend a shower at least before your meeting with Ms. Princeton?"

Bruce's eyebrows shot skyward. "My God you're right, I'd almost forgotten." He dropped the cane. "How long do I have?"

"You're to meet at her father's estate in an hour."

"Well, I should hurry then." Bruce was already out of his seat, heading toward the laboratory exit.

"Dress warmly," added Alfred. "I'd wager there's a good snowfall coming."

* * *

Zachary Princeton did not normally inquire into the everyday affairs of his daughter or wife, but having heard of Steven Trevor's unexpected visit, he was more than curious. Especially after seeing his daughter in her winter coat and ready to leave the mansion.

"Diana," he called, having just exited the dining room. She was directly underneath the chandelier, clearly in a hurry. Nonetheless, she paused.

"Father."

He came to stand in front of her. "You're headed out, my dear."

"Yes, of course."

"Where to?"

"I'm. . .consulting with the constabulary in regards to the murders."

Zachary was tempted to tell his only daughter not to bother, that the authorities could handle this unpleasant business well enough on their own. Still, she'd been distraught ever since the deaths of her dear friends. Perhaps feeling as though she were contributing to the apprehension of the fiend responsible would aid in her own recovery.

So he switched subjects. "I heard that Admiral Trevor came by earlier today," he said.

"Oh? I heard that you extended the invitation."

"You could sound a bit more pleased," said Zachary, confusion in his voice. "Many women in this town would send a million invitations to attract the attention of that young man."

"Well I am not one of them," said Diana curtly. "I understand why you told him to visit me, but I can honestly tell you that is not where my interest lies."

Zachary frowned. "Well, pray tell, where does your interest lie, Diana."

She averted her eyes. "I must go now, Father. I shall be back tonight."

Zachary gave an allowing nod. "Very well. But this conversation is not over."

"Of course it isn't." There was just the faintest hint of sarcasm in Diana's voice. "Goodbye, Father."

* * *

Bruce had to admit that the Princeton estate was spectacular. The manor where Diana and her family lived occupied more space than the library and university near which it was situated. The towering edifice, with its grand stairway and roman-style columns was a bit intimidating. Even to Bruce Wayne.

He checked his pocket watch. Diana was now late. He entertained the idea of marching right up there, knocking on the door, and introducing himself as Lady Princeton's escort for the evening. The thought was amusing, though highly impractical. If he knew anything, it was that Bruce Wayne was not well-regarded by families such as the Princetons.

As if on cue, the front door opened. Diana emerged briskly, trotting down the outside stairs with an admirable efficiency. She moved differently from many other women, especially of her class. There was purposefulness to her bearing that exuded confidence without being masculine. Like him, she was dressed for the cold in a sensible red overcoat and navy blue scarf.

"Bruce," she greeted.

"Diana. I was beginning to worry you wouldn't show."

"I'm sure you were positively distraught," she said breezily, teasing him a little. "Is this your carriage?"

In answer, Alfred poked his head out from the driver's seat of the carriage that rested on the street behind Bruce. "Yes indeed, Lady Princeton."

"Alfred," she greeted warmly. "It is wonderful to see you again."

"Likewise," assured the butler. "Please, climb aboard."

The pair needed no further prompting, Bruce extending a helping hand to Diana as she entered the cab before climbing in beside her. As they pulled away, Bruce surprised her with a rather direct question.

"What was that look just now?" he inquired.

"What look?"

"It was apprehension, I believe. Just as you entered the carriage"

Diana was impressed. Apprehension had indeed come over her, though Bruce's powers of perception had to be preternatural to have picked that up from her rigorously schooled features.

She decided to be honest. "In truth, I was a bit worried."

"About being seen with me," said Bruce neutrally.

"Yes. People can be such gossips, assuming things-"

"Naturally."

"And I dread the thought of rumors arising concerning our cooperation on this case."

"Of course."

"And that would be the last thing I need, what with Steven's arrival and all the expectations it has precipitated." She paused, noticing the change that passed over his face at her mentioning of Steven. "Had you not heard, Mr. Wayne?"

"I know quite well of Admiral Trevor's return," Bruce said. "Are the two of you acquainted?"

"Certainly not in any tawdry sense of the word," Diana stated. "The man has expressed rather direct interesting in courting me, however. The entire situation is entirely too much."

"You could do worse," was all Bruce said.

"You don't really believe that," countered Diana. "I'm rather apt at spotting deception myself." She cocked her head to the side, something suddenly occurring to her. "Do you have some sort of history with Admiral Trevor?"

Bruce shot her a meaningful look. "That. . .is a story for another time."

"I shall hold you to it, Mr. Wayne."

He nodded distractedly. "Well. At any rate, did you manage to inform your acquaintances of our impending visit?"

"Yes, they should be expecting us." She paused. "I reiterate, however, that the authorities have already spoken with these women at great length. I'm not sure what more you hope to learn."

"Nor am I," said Bruce simply. "That's the beauty of it."

The rest of the carriage ride passed in silence as Diana puzzled over this. Either the man was a crackpot or a genius. Or perhaps a little bit of both. At least he was easy on the eyes. He wasn't as classically handsome as Admiral Trevor, true, but his appeal resonated much deeper with her. The dark hair, eyes the color of obsidian, and tall, lean build were very fetching. Moreso, despite his rather pigheaded opinions on women, he was the first man she'd ever encountered who treated her as an equal and partner- strictly in the professional sense of course.

And of course, that was all it ever would be. Despite her inner protestations, Diana probably would end up marrying Steven or someone like him eventually. She had no desire to become an old and childless spinster after all, and half the town already thought she was odd for not finding a husband already.

"If you keep looking at me like that I shall have to ask you to ride up front with Alfred," Bruce said, still facing ahead. "It makes me uncomfortable." Contrary to his words, the corner of his mouth curled up in a semblance of a smile.

"I'm trying to decide if I've wasted my money in hiring a detective that most in Gotham believe to completely addled."

"My results speak for themselves, Ms. Princeton. And if I recall, this investigation is being performed as a courtesy, free of charge."

"I suppose time will tell if I've gotten my money's worth," replied Diana.

Bruce chuckled as the carriage pulled to a stop outside of their destination. "You're very impertinent," he told her.

"I suppose you prefer women docile and submissive-"

"Quite the contrary, actually." He rose and stepped down from the carriage, extending a hand to help her down as well. Having arrived, all banter was quickly forgotten. They were about to reopen some very fresh, very nasty wounds. The situation had grown very delicate indeed.

They approached the front door together, if only because of the ice-covered walk. Bruce gallantly offered his arm, though as far as he could tell Diana had the superior balance of the two. Still, she accepted the gesture.

"Are you ready?" they both asked at the same time. Diana just laughed, sending a fresh new cloud of mist into the cold air. She rang the bell.

Surprisingly, the door opened almost immediately. There to greet them stood an elderly man in butler's attire.

"Diana, it's so wonderful to see you."

"And you as well, Maurice. I assume you've heard of Bruce Wayne."

"By reputation, yes," said the butler. He extended his hand. "How do you do?"

"Rather cold, but then aren't we all."

"Dreadful time of year," agreed Maurice. "But enough of my rambling, Regina and Aubrey are waiting for you in the parlor. This way, please."

Bruce had to stifle a whistle as he was led through the large mansion. To Diana this was surely unimpressive, but the grandeur was not lost on him. If he ever did decide to take Alfred's advice and resurrect the Wayne Empire, a new manor might just be in order.

But that was business for another day. Presently, there was the matter of two young women who might very well hold the key to the infamous McGovern murders. It was a thrill. He was in his element.

The women themselves were similar-looking. The one who introduced herself as Regina Albright was a curvaceous strawberry blond, with a beauty mark just underneath the right side of her mouth. Aubrey Bingham stood a bit taller, carrot-hued hair and a spattering of freckles across her nose. Both were athletic and poised, very similar to Diana herself. If this sorority of theirs was good for anything, it was keeping its members at their physical primes.

"Bruce," Diana was saying, "won't you introduce yourself?"

"Oh, we both know who you are," said Aubrey graciously. "We welcome the assistance. The sooner this fiend can be found and dealt with, the better."

"I couldn't agree more," said Bruce, taking a seat on the sofa next to Diana.

"Did you want a pad, perhaps? For note keeping?" asked Regina.

Bruce tapped a finger to his temple. "Eidetic memory. Now, to begin, do you think you could recount the circumstances leading up to an including your discovery of the bodies?"

He let them both talk, noting that this was clearly a story the women had told together before. It was straightforward, uncomplicated, and horrifyingly brutal.

The McGovern Murders. A catchy moniker for a crime that electrified a city. Or rather, two crimes. The first were the McGovern murders, with which all four occupants of the room, as well as most of England, were familiar with. Then there was the more recent killing. Aubrey and Lydia had arrived at one of the victims' houses for a racquetball date early on a Sunday morning. No answer was received at the door, and yet it was not locked. The mechanism had been pulverized.

"So you just rushed inside?" Bruce asked, genuinely perplexed. "What if the perpetrator had still been there? You could have been accosted."

"Oh perish the thought!" exclaimed Aubrey smartly. Despite the situation, both Regina and Diana laughed.

"I don't believe I'm privy to this the humor in this situation," said Bruce.

"There really is none," said Diana. "It's just that we Daughters can acquit ourselves quite well in combat. Martial skill is every bit as important to our members as intellect. It would take quite the opponent to best one, let alone two of us."

Bruce was unconvinced. "And yet someone managed overwhelm three of your members. Quite the opponent indeed."

"You'll hear no argument from us on that," said Aubrey. "Megan, Samantha, and Helen had between them over a dozen years of the best martial arts instruction that money can buy. Indonesian silat, Chinese tai chi chuan, judo, savate. . ." she trailed off. "The idea that they were so handily overcome is truly frightening."

Bruce nodded but said nothing at first. "So you rushed inside and found their bodies in the kitchen."

"Yes," supplied Regina.

"All three women were dead at the time of your arrival?"

"Yes. The details are rather gruesome and I don't believe I shall ever manage to forget the sight."

"Did you find the Joker card at this time?"

"Well, yes and no. We didn't know it was a playing card at the time."

"Why not?"

Regina and Aubrey exchanged glances. "Because it was covered in- you do know how the murderer left his card, correct?"

"I was informed that he simply dropped them at the scene of the crime."

"No. It's actually far more disturbing." Her voice broke on these last words. "He ah. . .he uses the card like a knife to slit the carotid artery. Helen was just covered in blood, it was like a second smile right around the front of her throat. Very deep lacerations, deep enough to leave a card just embedded there."

Diana's hand flew to her mouth. "That's so awful!"

Bruce clasped his hands together, unsure of what to say next. "If this is too painful for you-"

Both women shook their heads. "Nonsense," said Regina. "It was horrific, to be sure. But we've mourned our losses and come to terms with what happened. We just want to help the investigation in any way possible."

Bruce nodded, asking a few more questions about the victims and the scene of the crime. In all though, it was a short interview and by the half hour mark he had exhausted all possible inquiry.

"I hope we were of some help," Aubrey said as Bruce and Diana rose to leave.

"You were," the detective assured them. "Thank you again for agreeing to meet with me."

"It was our pleasure."

Bruce shrugged his cloak back on and retrieved his cane from the fireplace. "Are you ready?" he asked Diana.

"Almost," she said. "Would it be possible for me to have a moment alone with them?"

"Certainly. I will be waiting with Alfred outside."

Diana waited until Bruce was gone to turn back to her friends. She hadn't seen them in quite some time and knew that it was best she explain some things before their speculations were allowed to run wild.

"Is he really as good as they say he is?" Regina wanted to know.

Diana smiled. "I don't know. Maybe. He's an odd one, that's for bloody well sure. But I have faith in him."

"Among other things?" asked Aubrey suggestively.

"Now what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

Regina gave her a 'you know better' look. "Oh come now Diana, he _is_ handsome."

"Doesn't seem to know it either," chipped in Aubrey. "A point in the man's favor."

Diana laughed at this. "Even if I were interested, which I'm not, if any man has Bachelor for Life written on their forehead it's Bruce Wayne. Women, I assure you, come a distant second to mysteries and the like in his book."

"Shame," said Regina. "And here we were hoping you'd found a decent beau."

"Well haven't you heard? None other than Admiral Trevor himself plans to take me out for a country ride."

"You sound positively thrilled," deadpanned Aubrey. "Tell me, does your father have any idea who you've been spending all this time with?"

"Well-"

"Thought so! Secret rendezvous, handsome detectives. . .I'm beginning to wonder if I've already read this novel."

"But we shan't keep you anymore," Regina insisted. "The detective is waiting."

"I loved seeing you all again, it's been far too long. Next time, I hope it will be under more pleasant circumstances."

"Sounds like a damned good idea to me," said Regina. "Now go on then. And try not to cause a scandal while you're at it."

Diana kissed and hugged both of them, while the butler brought her overcoat. "We'll catch the bastard," she said in parting. "I promise."

* * *

The ride back was considerably colder with strong winds now added to the equation. Luckily, Bruce's carriage had retractable barriers that could be extended down to shield its occupants from the elements. Both were silent at first, but Diana clearly had something on her mind.

"I hate to impugn your reputation as a detective, Mr. Wayne, but-"

"Didn't I just waste an hour of our time? That's the question you're about to ask, right?"

"Well not quite. That is, it's always a pleasure seeing old chums in any situation. But what on earth could you have possibly learned from that interview that the police don't already know?"

"Well, I know that Frederick McGovern had nothing to do with those murders. It was all too elaborate, too well-planned. And that bit with the playing card. . ."

"What of it?"

"Well, it can't be done. The throat is too durable, there's no way butcher's work like what your friends described could have been accomplished with a little piece of cardboard. Custom built sets, I'm guessing. I've seen them in magicians' stage acts."

"If this is another excuse to go see your fishnet-wearing acquaintance, I should warn you I won't be billed for it."

Bruce laughed. "What is it about the words pro bono that you don't understand? And not that it's any of your concern, but I wasn't thinking of paying Zatanna another visit just yet. I'd rather see the evidence myself."

"Are you still convinced that the man who attacked her performers is connected to the murder of my friends?"

"Yes. Bit of a hunch for now, but I'm rarely wrong about these things. If my theory is correct, then he'll strike again. Soon. He'll want to establish a pattern, especially since his latest attempt was foiled."

"For what possible motive though?"

"Well that's the devil of it," said Bruce. "I simply can't imagine."

"I'll be glad when we can all wash our hands of this dreadful affair," Diana murmured. She let out a sigh. "So what's next in your investigation?"

"Well, I'm going to jail."

"Pardon?"

"The mastermind got away, but the lackeys behind Mr. Miracle's murder attempt were still apprehended and taken into custody. One of them has indicated he might be willing to talk in exchange for a lesser sentence. I'm going to speak with him, see if her knows anything about the deaths of your friends."

"It sounds like a wild goose chase to me," declared Diana. "Nonetheless, I would like to come along."

Bruce laughed. "I don't think so."

"And why not?"

"Ms. Princeton, Gotham Jail is no place for a woman. Every sort of scum and lowlife imaginable resides there."

Her chin went up, as was customary when she was about to make things difficult. "I assure you, Mr. Wayne, I can take care of myself. And I've been to the sailors' bars, there's not a tawdry joke or obscene comment that I haven't heard before. I'm coming with you."

"Very well, you'll have to wake up before the crack of dawn."

"Sounds simple enough."

"And try not to look so. . ." he trailed off, as the word that immediately came to mind was 'beautiful', which he certainly wasn't about to say.

Regardless, the perceptive smile on her lips only widened. "I'll see what I can do. Blacken a few teeth perhaps. Or maybe affect a particularly horrid expression."

"It's as though you enjoy teasing me, Ms. Princeton," muttered Bruce. "Continue and I shall be forced to consider finding another young woman to escort to the Princeton Ball."

"As if anyone but me would even consider being your escort," scoffed Diana. "I must be utterly mad."

Bruce looked at her. Earlier she'd asked him if he preferred docile women, and he'd answered honestly in the negative. Now he was beginning to realize just how true that was. The challenge in her eyes, the slight smirk at the corner of her mouth, the way her chin rose assertively when she was about to speak her mind. . .

He'd never met a woman like her.

"So, bright and early tomorrow morning then?" Diana asked. With a start he tore his gaze from her to the window, where it was clear they had arrived back at the Princeton Manor.

"Um, yes."

"Excellent. Well you have a good night, Mr. Wayne. I shall see you then. She turned to Alfred, whom Bruce had almost forgotten was there in the first place. "You as well Alfred. You must promise that tomorrow I will have the pleasure of your _conversation_ as well as your skills as a chauffeur."

Alfred chuckled from the front. "Certainly, Ms. Princeton."

They watched her enter the mansion making sure she made it alright. Once the door had closed, Alfred made a show of clearing his throat.

"Don't, Alfred."

"But Master Bruce, I was only going to remark-"

"Alfred."

A sigh. "Right then. Homeward we go."

* * *

"Diana," said a stern voice from the shadows.

She froze in her steps. Entering the house had been a quiet enough affair, and she'd hoped to avoid both Annabeth and her father. It was a half success at any rate.

"Hello father."

He stepped out into the foyer, lips pursed. "I talked with Chief Gordon today. About your consulting. He told me something very interesting."

"That I've decided to hire Bruce Wayne on my own?"

"Yes. A fact you neglected to mention my dear."

"I just want their murderer found-"

"I know you do. But what concerns me is you taking such a personal role in it. Especially with Bruce Wayne." He gave her a meaningful look. "That's where you've been, I presume. With him."

"We paid a long-overdue visit to Aubrey and Regina. He wanted to ask them some questions about what happened that night."

"And it really is admirable, Diana. But if you do so insist on contracting the services of Bruce Wayne, it's not necessary that you accompany him every step of the way. It seems as though all I've heard lately is speculation and gossip about the two of you." He sighed. "You are a fine and beautiful young woman, Diana. Don't sully yourself with this awful business. And for heaven's sakes don't go gallivanting around with this Wayne fellow when you can hardly give Admiral Trevor the time of day. One might get the wrong idea."

Her chin rose. "I apologize, I was unaware that you had arranged to marry me off to the good admiral. I shall purchase a wedding dress and arrange for bridal arrangements immediately!"

Another sigh. "If only you meant that."

"But you know me far better than that, father."

"That I do. And you know how I detest arranged marriages. I wouldn't dream of forcing one on you, my dear. But Admiral Trevor is a rare breed. I wish you wouldn't give up on him so easily. In fact, I was thinking that you should escort him to the Princeton Ball."

She stifled a gasp. _Where had this come from?_ "Ah, well. . .I've already obtained an escort, actually."

"Oh?" her father's aristocratic brow rose. "And who would that be?"

The way she averted her eyes said it all.

His nostrils flared. "You must be joking."

"I invited him father. Just as a good friend."

"A good friend," he repeated in disbelief. "No, Diana, that I cannot allow."

"Why not?" she demanded.

"You know very well why not. This is a very prestigious event. The prime minister might be in attendance! Now Thomas Wayne, there was a man I'd welcome with open arms. Martha as well, the jewel of Gotham that woman was."

"But because Bruce dissolved the company and took to the sordid business of detective work, he's no longer welcome in our sphere. I know the story, father."

"Then you know why I can't allow you to escort him. On that I will not budge."

"Then I shan't be in attendance. On that _I_ will not budge."

"Go with Admiral Trevor, you will have a marvelous time, I promise."

"Father-"

"Accompany him, and I will allow Wayne to attend."

"But not as my escort."

"Precisely."

Her jaw clenched. "I shall think on it. Now if you will excuse me, I'm feeling rather weary at the moment. Running wildly around the town with dashing young detectives can tire a girl after all."

Zachary Princeton just shook his head and waved her away. "Go, get some sleep then. Off with you now."

The warmth in his eyes softened Diana a bit. "Don't worry, father, I know what I'm doing."

He laughed. "I thought I did too, at your age."

"Good night, father." She rose up to give him a kiss on the cheek.

"Good night, Diana."

* * *

The next morning found Diana at the Gotham Jail, a large brick building located in Gotham's business district. She'd seen it many times and had never dreamed she'd be voluntarily entering. Next to her in the waiting area, Bruce was inscrutable. It was early enough that most of the on-duty constables were just arriving themselves.

The way they acted around Bruce was interesting, she thought. It was like a mixture of fear and respect. Some of them had clearly never even met Bruce Wayne, but his reputation preceded him. This was most evident in the fact that none of the lower ranked officers even spoke with the pair until Chief Gordon arrived on site.

Gordon seemed surprised to see Diana with Bruce, but to his credit he didn't comment on it. "Here to see Donald Luger eh? This way."

"Donald Luger?" whispered Diana as they followed Gordon down the dark, stale corridors toward the holding blocks. "Why does that name sound familiar?"

"I can answer that one," said Gordon, turning a corner to an even more forbidding row of enclosed cells. "This was the fellow behind the London Bank heist about ten years ago."

"More like the London Bank Massacre," mused Diana. "Rather inept robbers, but very proficient when it came to killing over a dozen tellers and patrons. What's a monster like that doing here in Gotham?"

"I intend to ask the same question of my colleagues there. Regardless, it shows us the caliber of henchman that this green-haired joker seems to employ. I wouldn't hope to gain much if I were you."

"Can't hurt to try," Bruce said optimistically. "He did say he would cooperate after all. This the cell?"

Gordon frowned. "Yes. . .he's awfully quiet in there though. He drew himself up to see through the tiny window into the cell. Moments later he was recoiling in horror. "What in the hell?"

Bruce and Diana exchanged looks of alarm as Gordon hurriedly opened the cell. He flung the door open, rushing to a sight that was nothing short of grotesque.

Diana wrenched her gaze away in disgust. "Oh, Bruce!"

He put a comforting arm around her. He'd seen some very bad things, and this might well have been the worst.

Luger had been crucified. Nailed to the wall. His shirt and shoes had been removed. Sliced clean off. the neatly cut remains of both items were littered about the floor.

He was smiling, and it wasn't natural. Incisions at the corners of his mouth curled upward all the way to the cheekbones in a sickening parody of a cheerful grin. In all likelihood they'd been made with the same knife that had been used to partially disrobe him. There was blood everywhere. The floor, the walls. It was dried and blackened and it made the air smell coppery. Like death.

There was something nestled in his slackened jaw.

Gordon stepped forward, cautiously. He put a hand to the side of Luger's neck.

"He's dead, I presume," said Bruce shakily.

Gordon turned back around his face ashen. "Quite."

"What's that in his mouth?"

Gordon rolled up his sleeve. "One way to find out." In one motion he reached into the dead man's mouth and retrieved a small thin rectangle. A playing card. It was covered in blood but Bruce could see the image underneath. The glimpse of a smiling jester.

The Joker.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Happy New Years. If you're reading this, then thanks so much for making it through the chapter and I hope you'll share your feedback with me! This is definitely being resurrected after quite the long hiatus and I'm sure my style has changed significantly since I first began writing this story. Hopefully that doesn't interfere too much.

More to come soon

-C


	4. An Uninvited Passenger

**Chapter 4**

Poor Mr. Luger was taken down immediately by some of the other constables. They'd needed large workman's hammers just to pry the nails loose. Luckily, those very tools were readily available as the rear of the station house was undergoing construction. From there, the body was taken to the offices of Dr. Leslie Thompkins, one of the only physicians in Gotham who would permit her laboratory to be used for criminological purposes. This had created a close working relationship between herself and the police, despite the fact that she was a woman. It also helped that she was the most talented medical expert in the entire city.

Bruce and Diana accompanied the transportation of the corpse, despite protestations from some of the officers who felt that Diana's presence was 'highly irregular'. Bruce himself, with one look, had immediately ended the debate. It was a rather fearsome expression, foreboding and intimidating and heated all at the same time. Diana privately hoped that she would never be on the receiving end of it.

"Leslie Thompkins," she said, almost wistfully as they waited with the chief outside of Leslie's office. "She was one of the first graduates of the London School of Medicine for Women, you know."

"I actually didn't," Bruce replied distractedly.

She frowned. "Let me guess, you don't approve of female physicians either."

Realizing she'd misinterpreted his distractedness, he gave her his full attention. "I don't think much one way or the other," he said honestly. "A steady hand and a keen eye are what they are, regardless of the bearer's gender. I've never met a medically-trained woman, but my father was one of the primary investors in the Edinburgh School, which by all accounts trained a number of fine female doctors." He arched an eyebrow at her. "I suppose you want to run off to medical school then?"

"Not at all. I prefer political endeavors as you well know. And Dr. Thompkins. . .perhaps she could even keynote our next Daughters of the Amazon meeting."

"Perhaps, but first things first," said Bruce. "I'm curious to see if she can deduce the cause of death for our deceased henchman."

"Well I'll certainly do my best," said an older woman's voice from behind them. Bruce and Diana whirled around, followed by Gordon and his underlings who were gathered near the door.

"Dr. Thompkins," Bruce quickly deduced.

The woman, smiled, showing the faint signs of aging on an otherwise youthful face. This in turn was offset, though complementarily, by the long, silver hair that she wore in a conservative bun. Bruce guessed her to be a bit younger than Alfred, early forties perhaps. She wore a white shawl and a black dress and had the kind of schoolteacher's smile that made Bruce feel like a child in grammar school again.

"Bruce Wayne, I don't believe I've ever had the pleasure," said Leslie serenely. "Though I know your father. He was a great man, in an era where few ever were."

"Thank you."

She turned to Diana. "And you, my dear, look very familiar. You wouldn't happen to be Zachary Princeton's girl, would you?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. Diana Princeton. How do you?"

"Very well." Leslie appraised her for a moment before adding, "you have your mother's beauty and your father's bearing. This one's a lucky man indeed, my dear."

"Oh, no, you um. . .you misunderstand. Diana is a client of mine," said Bruce quickly. "We are not. . .involved."

Leslie just smiled. "So you say. I hope you can be more honest in telling me what exactly has brought you two and half of the Gotham constabulary to my doorstep."

Both Bruce and Diana were saved from further protestation by Alfred's dismount from the carriage. "Master Bruce, I would like to remind you of your afternoon meeting."

Bruce had actually forgotten about it, but the appointment was highly 'missable', as his father used to say. An inconvenient yet necessary waste of time. "Thank you, Alfred," he said, before manners kicked in. "Oh, and this is Dr. Leslie Thompkins who will be assisting the authorities in this case."

"How do you do," greeted Alfred, gracing Leslie with a slight bow. "Alfred Pennyworth, in the service Bruce Wayne."

"Hello, it is wonderful meet you Alfred." Was it Diana's imagination or had a faint blush colored the older woman's cheeks? "I imagine you live quite the exciting life, in the company of such a renowned detective."

"Oh, it's rather more boring than that," said Alfred modestly. "Though I do brew mean ginseng tea."

"Mmm, I've never had it."

"Well you must, Dr. Thompkins-"

"Oh, please, call me Leslie."

Bruce and Diana caught each other's eye, sharing a small smile at the exchange. It was almost a shame to interrupt the two, but time was of the essence.

Thirty minutes later they were in the basement laboratory of Leslie's offices. A notice had been put on the door advising patients that Dr. Thompkins was temporarily unavailable. Given that these were prime business hours, Bruce could see why the local police valued her so much.

He watched in fascination as Leslie performed an examination of the body. Horrible wounds had indeed been inflicted on Luger, but none visible which should have killed him. Leslie, completely unperturbed by the gruesome nature of her task, was dressed in white trauma garments and busily examining the interior of the victim's mouth. Her dental mirror and tweezers moved occasionally, but Bruce could make neither heads nor tails of it.

Finally, the doctor straightened up. "Very interesting. . ."

"Your findings?" Bruce inquired immediately.

"Yes, well." She cleared her throat, raising her throat so that everyone in the crowded little laboratory could hear her. "In my opinion, the cause of death was asphyxiation. There are small fibers from a common household rag, I would guess, remaining in the mouth. This rag was inserted orally, acting as a gag to suppress the ehm. . .screams. The bruising on his forearms is consistent with strong hands holding him in place while the nails themselves were pounded in at the wrists and feet. Once secured, this," she held up the playing card, "was used to slice through the facial tissue on either side of the mouth."

At the incredulity written on the faces of her audience, Leslie just smiled. "Don't let its appearance fool you. This is no cardboard scrap. It's constructed out of something altogether different, perhaps a ceramic composite of some sort. Heavy and razor sharp." She flipped it between her index and middle fingers and threw it toward the door with a flick of her wrist. The card flew unerringly, embedding itself in the wooden frame with a solid thunk.

"I wouldn't even want to have one of these thrown at me," she summarized. "At any rate, death was simple enough to achieve. The culprits just pinched his nose. With the rag in his mouth, he suffocated. Then the rag was removed, the card inserted in its place, and the rest is history."

"One question," said Alfred while the rest of the room recovered from a bout of speechlessness. "How on earth did the culprits mask the sound of nails being driven through flesh and bone and solid brick for that matter?"

"The construction at the station house," murmured Diana.

"I would concur," sighed Gordon. "The other prisoners wouldn't have thought twice about hearing the sound of a hammer."

Leslie gave him a pointed look. "My advice, non-medical nature notwithstanding: the station should have a night patrol at all hours of the night. Either that, or a better locksmith."

Gordon didn't look pleased with having the good doctor tell him how to do his job, but it was obvious he'd been thinking the same thing anyway. "I'll assign a patrol over the rest of the prisoners for the foreseeable future," he said. "Thank you, Dr. Thompkins. I think we're done."

She spread her hands magnanimously. "Well, glad to be of service. I'll keep the cadaver, if you don't mind."

"Um. . ." suddenly the chief was looking a bit green around the gills. "By all means. Good day, Dr. Thompkins."

He and the rest of the policemen filed out of the laboratory, leaving only Bruce, Diana, Leslie, and Alfred. The latter turned curiously to Dr. Thompkins. "It's hard to imagine wanting to keep something as macabre as a corpse on the premises."

Leslie adjusted her spectacles. "Well, I'm a woman of science. A good cadaver is difficult to obtain, legally or illegally. I think that even in death, Mr. Luger here can be of _some_ contribution to society."

Diana smiled queasily. "On that note, I think I should be getting back home. Bruce?"

Her tone of voice brooked no dissent. Bruce for his part wanted to stay and discuss the forensic method with Leslie. Alfred, he suspected, wished to discuss other things altogether with the doctor. The distinguished butler tended to play his cards close to his chest, but Bruce knew him well enough to detect the spark of interest.

He nudged Alfred. "I can take Diana back home if you have any more questions for Dr. Thompkins. It's no problem, I assure you."

Alfred made a show of studying the medical paraphernalia. "You know," he addressed Leslie, "I was an army medic back in the Xhosa Wars."

"Oh?" Leslie leaned forward. "You must tell me about it."

Bruce chuckled, leaving the two to their conversation. Alfred, who would've thought. Quietly, he and Diana exited the laboratory. Outside the clouds had dissipated making for a cold, albeit sunny morning.

Bruce turned to Diana. "So, what did you think?"

She beamed at him. "I think they're just adorable. And you! Playing matchmaker, I never-"

Bruce laughed. "I meant about the murder."

"Oh." Her expression sobered. "If I never see something like that again, I shall be content. How gruesome!"

"Indeed, Bruce agreed."

"I just can't for the life of me imagine why this fiend would do that to his own accomplice."

"Well, it's rather obvious, isn't it? He wanted to send a message. Now it doesn't matter how many of his henchmen we catch. They won't utter a word, lest they suffer Mr. Luger's fate."

Diana looked ready to respond, but then something else caught her eye. Bruce thought he heard her say 'bloody hell' under her breath but couldn't be sure. Perhaps it was just the wind.

"Diana! Imagine running into you here!" called a rapidly-approaching Steven Trevor. He was clearly surprised to see Bruce there with her next to the carriage, but to his credit he recovered quickly. "And Bruce Wayne, it's been ages old chap." He extended a hand to the detective, who shook it.

"Steven," said Bruce curtly.

The Admiral's inquisitive gaze bounced back and forth between the two of them. "Darling, I didn't know you and Bruce were acquaintances."

"He has been generous enough to offer his services in apprehending my friends' murderer."

"Ah, yes. Dreadful business. That's the one they're calling the Joker, isn't it?"

"We don't know who he is. Yet."

Steven smirked. "Always so grim, Bruce. Best of luck though, honestly. I hope they catch the fiend him and hang him higher than Big Ben." He turned to Diana, still facing Bruce. "By the way, you don't mind if I steal Lady Princeton for the day, do you?"

Bruce's eyes narrowed. "If it's all the same-"

"You see," interjected Steven, sidling next to Diana. "With the Princeton Ball fast approaching, I cleared today's schedule in order to go costume shopping with my lovely escort."

"Costume shopping?" Bruce realized that Diana had never told him it would be a masquerade ball. Far more importantly, she'd neglected to mention that she already had an escort in the dashing young Admiral. He turned questioningly to Diana, who for once looked distinctly embarrassed.

"Bruce, I was going to tell you. I um, I will be accompanying Admiral Trevor to the event, actually."

"I see." Bruce stepped back, distancing himself from them. "Well, congratulations. It seems you already have a transportation arrangement, so I'll be going then."

Diana felt furious. Furious at her father for forcing her replace Bruce as her escort. Furious at Steven Trevor for being the insufferably smug bastard he was, and furious at herself for caring so much. Just before he'd schooled his features into a neutral mask, she caught a brief flash of. . .hurt. She could only imagine what he must be thinking of her.

Bruce swiftly boarded his carriage without so much as a glance back, and took off down the Gotham streets. She was so caught up in the vanishing sight that she barely noticed when Steven tried to take her hand.

"Interesting," mused Steven. "If I didn't know better I'd think that Bruce was hoping to accompany you himself. He looked positively crestfallen." A laugh. "Never pegged him for the type."

"What type?" asked Diana sharply.

He chuckled. "A dreamer."

She wanted to hit him. If anyone was dreaming it was Steven Trevor. The audacity! She whirled on him, only partially concealing her anger. "I never told you I would be your escort. You never even asked."

He was unruffled. "But surely you anticipated my request. I was going to ask you this morning as a matter of fact, but you were already out of the house. Your father invited me in and told me that you were looking forward to being my escort, as a matter of fact. Did he lie?"

_Yes_. "You have me for the afternoon, Admiral. We will select our costumes and then I wish to be taken home immediately."

"Well, I was thinking that perhaps afterward we could go see the new Wilde play. Balcony seating, my dear."

"Not today," said Diana. _Not ever,_ she thought.

* * *

It wasn't until evening that Alfred returned to the house. He arrived to see Bruce in the library, the full chalkboard opened with every manner of scribble and notation taking up the wide space. The young detective was pacing back and forth across the length of the wall, pausing sporadically to mark additional notes under his various subheadings. The air was filled with chalk dust.

"Good afternoon," Bruce clipped without turning around.

"Evening more like it," said Alfred, taking off his coat. "How long have you been in here Master Bruce?"

"Ever since departing the offices of Dr. Thompkins."

Alfred frowned. "I thought you took Diana back to her home afterward."

"No, Admiral Trevor took care of that quite handily."

The clench in Bruce's jaw was beginning to make more sense. "I was wondering when you two would run into each other," said Alfred. "How is Steven?"

"The same." Bruce ceased writing for a moment to turn around. "Apparently, he is also escorting Diana to the Princeton Ball."

Alfred took a moment to process this. "I thought you were attending with Diana."

"As did I."

"Well, it's certainly not the end of the world. You have plenty of time to find a new escort."

"If I decide to go at all. Upon further thought I'm beginning to think that attending might have. . .limited usefulness for this investigation. The murders must remain my main concern. Not the bloody Princeton Ball or-"

"Diana?" Alfred finished for him. "Sir, if you feel wounded by her actions, why not go and ask her about the matter?"

"Wounded?" Bruce laughed, albeit unconvincingly. "You must be joking, Alfred."

Never the pushy sort, the good butler raised his hands in mock surrender and took a seat on the nearby couch. "All these hours of mental ruminations. . .have you come up with anything yet?"

Bruce shook his head. "No, not yet. Although. . .well, there is one thing." He set the chalk down, stepping back to view the entirety of his notes. "The police have been kind enough to provide me with their case files for the McGovern murders, the killings of Diana's associates, as well as this recent attempt on Mr. Miracle's life and the slaying of Mr. Luger. Having examined them, I believe we can rule out the McGovern murders themselves as wholly extraneous."

"You find it coincidental that the same three girls featured most prominently in that case should be murdered not long after?"

"Yes, I do. By all accounts, the three were good friends. Inseparable. I don't think they were targeted as a group, which is only further reinforced by the fact that only one of them received any kind of special attention from the murderer. This 'Joker', if you will. Helen Beaumont, she was the target. The other two were collateral damage. Simple, vicious, inelegant wounds meant to kill quickly. The decoration was reserved for Ms. Beaumont."

"Fascinating," Alfred murmured. "Continue."

"Well, the rest follows naturally, doesn't it? The attack on Zatanna's performers was necessarily carried out by the same fellow who executed Mr. Luger. The silencing of a snitch. In turn, both of those are just as necessarily connected to the deaths of Helen and her friends. The same culprit. In the case of Mr. Luger, his motivation was quite clear. The others? I am as of right now baffled."

Alfred stroked his thin mustache thoughtfully. "You had opined earlier that they were random killings. The work of a demented psychopath, much like your parents' killer, who reveled in the fatally ironic."

Bruce was already shaking his head. "This man, this green-haired killer. . .he certainly reminds me of Jackson Cale. But his work is anything but random. There's a greater plan here, mark my word."

"So what now?" asked Alfred.

Bruce smiled. "I've been digging into the case files. There's someone the police never got around to interviewing. I shall pay her a visit tomorrow, I think."

"'Her', sir?"

Bruce pointed to a name on the chalkboard, double-underlined with all sorts of arros portruding and leading to other captions. "Helen Beaumont's sister, Andrea."

* * *

"Are you sure you don't want to go someplace more private?" asked Steven as they approached the Princeton manor. "My home is just a few miles away, you know."

"Careful," Diana admonished. "Were it not for your purity of heart and motive one might think you were being intentionally scandalous."

"Eh?" His brow furrowed, trying to decide whether that was sarcasm he's just been subjected to.

She rolled her eyes, then suddenly feigned a yawn. "Maybe some other time, Steven, I'm so dreadfully tired at the moment."

"You've been tired for quite some time," he observed. "Are you ill, Diana?"

"Yes, that actually does make sense doesn't it? This horrid weather, I'm sure I'll be laid up for days."

"Oh. . .well, we're here. I hope you had fun shopping for our costumes. We'll be the envy of the ball my dear."

"Of course we will," said Diana absently. "Thank you so much, Steven, I'm sure I'll see you soon." She hurriedly disembarked, not even waiting for him to assist her. The costume itself was tightly wrapped in a brown parcel in the cab of his carriage. After making sure she had the right one, she straightened and retreated partway up the large exterior stairway. "Goodbye, Admiral."

He sighed, unhappy that an entire days' worth of his finest naval stories and accomplishments had not been enough to thaw the Lady Diana Princeton. Hell, she'd seemed happier talking with Bruce Wayne of all people. He froze at this thought, the horses whinnying in confusion while he contemplated the possibility that the shunned detective might actually be some sort of competition for Diana's affections.

Just as quickly he shook off the notion. Ridiculous. Absurd in the extreme. Diana would take some time, but no woman was immune to his charms. She would succumb soon enough.

* * *

Diana heard the voices before she saw them. A loud, angry exchange coming from the sitting room. She recognized one of the voices, the loud one, as her father's. The other, an American, from the sound of it, she'd never heard before.

Annabeth, coming down the stairs to do the last of the dusting, instantly put a finger to her lips. Curious, Diana waited for the other woman to join her at the foot of the stairs. "Ann, what's going on? Who is my father talking to in there?"

The maid leaned in conspiratorially. "His name is Locke. He's an American, or was. I've heard he's a citizen of the Crown now. Very wealthy. I've seen him here once or twice, but I've never witnessed an argument like this."

Diana strained to hear what the two men were saying from behind the large oak doors, but their voices had lowered. She approached the door cautiously, curious as to whom could provoke such a reaction from Zachary Princeton.

The doors opened abruptly, leaving her standing there and looking every bit the eavesdropper she was. Her father didn't even seem to notice. He stormed out as if he needed the movement to keep from erupting again. "I believe we have nothing further to discuss, Mr. Locke," he said, hostility oozing from every syllable. "You are no longer welcome here."

Out from the sitting room stepped a tall, fit-looking man. He was impeccably tailored and wore a mustache and goatee that looked somewhat sinister on his face. His features were bland, at first glance. No trace of emotion or sentiment of any kind. His face could have been molded from wax.

The man called Locke strolled out, oblivious to Zachary Princeton's words. When he saw Diana, he smiled. The effect was something like a piranha baring its teeth. Predatory and cruel. Diana instantly wished he would never do it again.

"Well hello my dear," said Locke. "The lovely Diana Prince, in the flesh." His voice was low and hypnotic. It made her skin crawl.

Still, was that familiarity in his tone? "Do I know you?" she asked. Of course not. She would have remembered meeting someone so unpleasant.

Yet Locke paused in his answer, as if there were some inside joke privy only to him. "No, I don't believe I've had the. . .pleasure." He turned to her father, who was suddenly pale. "My my, she is every bit as beautiful as they say Zachary. "You're a very fortunate man."

Diana's uneasiness was only growing. She felt like a chess piece in some sinister game. Even those innocuous words from Locke had clearly upset her father in the extreme. Hands trembling, Zachary Princeton pointed toward the door. "Leave, now!"

"As you wish." For the first time during the short confrontation, the corner of Locke's mouth curled up in a smile. Even the hint of an expression seemed to cause him physical pain. The American had started to leave but without warning he turned around. His eyes settled on Diana, his gaze working its way all over her body. She drew back at the invasive appraisal, and yet Locke's words were not directed at her. "Just remember what we talked about," he said to Zachary in that awful voice of his.

The elder patriarch came to stand between his daughter and Locker. "Out!"

The other man gave a final chuckle as he strolled out of the door and into the night.

Diana waited until the door was firmly shut. Then she waited some more, just to be certain Locke was really gone.

"Father." She hadn't phrased it as a question but then, doing so would have been redundant. Who was this Locke fellow, and why did her father know such people? He was a respectable businessman, an industrialist whose name was known throughout the Continent.

Zachary Princeton's face burned from embarrassment, shame. . .and fear. With a start, she realized that her father was actually afraid of this man. She took a step forward. "Who _was_ that, father?"

The older man looked at her, fearful for her. "It was no one, honey."

"Bollocks! I am not a child, father, and I would implore you not to insult my intelligence so. Who was that man and why are you so frightened of him?"

"Your curiosity is often an asset my daughter, but not now. Forget you ever saw him, and I promise you he will not enter this house again."

"Father," she pleaded. "You can trust me. You don't have to shoulder this burden, whatever it is, alone."

He flashed a wry smile that never reached his eyes. "Of course I do, darling. It is nothing for you to worry about. In fact, that reminds of something else I've been meaning to discuss with you."

She did not like the tone in his voice "Oh?"

"No more of this running around town trying to solve the mystery of your friends' death. I want you in the house at all times. As much as possible, at any rate. Anything you need can be brought to right here in this home."

Diana struggled to process these words."You can't be serious-"

"But I am dead serious, Diana. And I am your father and you live under my roof and you _will _heed what I say. I am only trying to look out for your best interests."

Diana felt another argument with her father coming on but by now she was past caring. "_First _of all, my living here is a choice. If it is to become a prison then I can easily make my own way elsewhere, father. Second, your sudden insistence on these draconian measures makes no sense. The only thing that has changed between today and yesterday is that you met with that freakish Mr. Locke." She froze. "Has he threatened me?"

His hesitation said enough.

Diana had never felt such strong antipathy for a person she'd barely even met. "I'm not afraid of him, father. And I assure you if that man so much as touches my _shadow_ I'll make him wish he never heard the name Princeton!"

Annabeth gasped from where she'd been listening at the doorway, no doubt horrified by the unladylike display of aggression. Her father, for his part was simply done arguing. "I will send an armed escort to accompany you at all times when you leave this house. Furthermore, I don't want you going near this murder case. Tell Bruce Wayne his services are no longer needed and then cease all relation or contact with him." Her father's mouth was set in a line of grim determination. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes." She could barely disguise the anger in her voice.

"It's for your protection, Diana. I don't know what I would do if something happened to you. These are just. . .dangerous times right now."

The thing was, she couldn't even direct her anger toward her father. He didn't deserve it. In his mind, he was just trying to keep her safe. He was genuinely fearful for her. What kind of threat could intimidate her strong, proud father so? Who was this Locke?

That night in bed, she reflected that this really had not been one of her better days at all. Bruce wasn't exactly pleased with being unknowingly replaced by the Admiral. She didn't even blame him. To make matters worse, she'd been forced to spend the better part of an evening with a man whose idea of scintillating conversation was recounting an exaggerated story for every medal he'd ever received. She'd remarked that the best date he could possibly have was himself, and he'd laughed at her joke.

It hadn't been a joke. And now she was forbidden from seeing the one man whose company she'd actually come to enjoy. He would be receiving an invitation to the Princeton Ball soon, a legitimate one. She wondered if he would actually come.

Bruce Wayne, man of mystery. She couldn't stop thinking about him. Her father's orders rang clear in her mind. She'd never disobeyed him before.

But. . .there was a first time for everything.

* * *

"You're already dressed," Bruce noted groggily the next morning. "Why are you dressed?"

In truth, he'd caught Alfred just as he was heading out. The butler chuckled. "We did have this conversation yesterday, Master Bruce."

This did bring back some fuzzy memories. "Something about sledding, right?"

"Dr. Thompkins usually goes on the weekends, she invited me to accompany her. I agreed, it sounded fun Master Bruce."

Bruce sighed and poured himself a hot cup of steaming tea. "At the wedding, may I be your best man?"

"Clever as always, Master Bruce. If you must know, yes, I do find the woman rather captivating. That said, for now we are simply going sledding. Expect me back sometime this evening."

"Very well." Bruce took a long sip, wondering exactly how he was going to structure his day. Andrea Beaumont lived a good two hours away, and he hardly wanted to waste the trip if she wasn't at her listed address. Waiting to contact her and set up an appointment was not an option either- that could take days, even a week.

In the end, he decided that lost travel time was a small price to pay, especially if Andrea Beaumont had any leads. It wasn't lost on him either that having Diana along could prove beneficial. Certainly, Andrea would feel more comfortable with another woman there. Someone warm and empathetic, with a sense of humor and the ability to listen without judgment.

The notion stung a bit. He was still troubled by the sudden rescinding of his invitation to accompany Diana to ball. Even if it had been just as friends. That she had replaced him with Steven Trevor was nothing short of insult to injury.

Then again, he hadn't talked to Diana about the matter yet. And he missed her company. He decided to swing by the Princeton manor, in the hopes that perhaps she would be willing to assist him with the Andrea Beaumont lead. That is, if bloody Steven Trevor hadn't already filled up her schedule for the day.

An hour later he was walking up what were by now familiar steps. He felt almost nervous, like a schoolboy about to ask the girl to dance. It's just the size of this place, he told himself. Like a modern-day castle.

He was immediately admitted entrance by one of the butlers, if only to stop the draft from an open door.

"Please state your name and business," the portly butler said once the door was shut.

Bruce responded without missing a beat. "Bruce Wayne, I was hired as a detective by Diana Princeton, and I wanted to discuss a new lead with her. Is she here?"

The butler seemed at a loss for what to say, but he wouldn't get to finish anyway. Seemingly from nowhere, a much younger woman in a maid's attire appeared. "I'll handle this," she whispered to the butler. Bruce watched the exchange in confusion. What was there to handle?

"Detective Bruce Wayne, it's an honor," the woman began. "I'm truly sorry for you to have come all this way. Your services, I'm afraid, are no longer needed."

Bruce frowned. "Is that so?"

"Yes it is. You can feel free to send an invoice for time and labor rendered thus far. We will be happy to reimburse you."

He saw through the false civility, and he wasn't buying it. Yet, for the moment, there was nothing he could do. Diana was not there to tell him what was really going on, and this maid of hers was oh-so-politely telling him to sod off.

He plastered on a genial smile. "Well, if you could tell her that Bruce Wayne stopped by, I would appreciate it."

"Of course," the maid said. The lie probably didn't even sound convincing to her.

"Well, good day then." Bruce departed from the Princeton manor even more perplexed than before. These sudden reversals on Diana's part, the whole escort matter and now effectively terminating his services from the case. . .it wasn't like her.

Then again, how well did he really know this woman in the first place. Her father, for one, had made it clear where Bruce stood in the eyes of Gotham's elite. He'd thought Diana could see past that but perhaps it had just taken her longer to come to the same conclusion.

The thought worried him, and as a result he wasn't as attentive as he should have been. He climbed into the carriage, ready to head back home, when he felt the cold, steel end of a barrel press itself against the back of his next. Then, the ominous click of a revolver's hammer being cocked.

His mind kicked into overdrive. Fight or flight. Instinctively, he knew what to do. How to spin so that by the time the gunman could execute a shot he would be out of the way. How to incapacitate an armed assailant. Even two, or three.

But it wasn't practical. Not enough room to maneuver, and the way the gun barrel rested perfectly still against his spine was worrisome. A cool, steady hand with a gun was a rare thing. The mark of a seasoned shooter who knew what he was doing.

"Nothing stupid," said the voice of his unknown passenger. "Just drive."

"Where to?" Bruce's voice was calm, but his mind was frantically coming up with contingencies and backup plans.

The voice chuckled. It was muffled somehow, as if the man were wearing a mask. "Don't worry about that, Mr. Wayne. Just drive."

* * *

**A/N**: So I just finished watching the most recent film adaptation of Oscar Wilde's play, The Importance of Being Earnest. I loved it, and it brought back all the memories of reading the original play which I haven't done in years. All this to say that I felt I had to throw in a sly reference to it, especially its release is somewhat contemporaneous with the setting of this fic. Perhaps Diana should have taken Admiral Trevor up on his offer to take her to the theater after all. . .

Also, for you discerning DCAU followers, I was a huge fan of Mask of the Phantasm and had planned for quite some time to include a Victorian-era Andrea Beaumont in this story. She won't play as major a role and certainly won't have a torrid love affair with Bruce Wayne, but I wanted to try as much as possible to keep the important characters grounded in the comics or animated universe rather than go OC-crazy.

Anyway, more to come soon. I'd love to know what you think and reviews do make my day ;)

* * *

**Edit**: Also, as has been generously pointed out to me, I could use a beta reader. Even when I read over my own work, I miss a lot of the obvious grammatical oopsies and the are out of place quotation marks, etc. So, if anyone could possibly help me in that regard, I would appreciate it very much!

-C


	5. The Search for Andrea Beaumont

**Last Laugh Chapter 5**

* * *

Bruce drove.

With a lash of the reigns he and his mysterious abductor were moving. The street went on for quite some distance but eventually they would have to turn. That was when he would make his move. He made a mental inventory of everything he had stored back there with his uninvited guest. Files, spare clothing, maps, a lumber axe for firewood, if he remembered correctly. Not that he could currently reach it.

"Hurry up," prodded the man behind him. And don't turn, keep going for now."

"Headed outside of town then?" said Bruce amiably.

"Shut. Up."

"The woods I imagine. Bloody good spot for dumping a body, and-"

"Bruce!"

He stopped short, actually halting the carriage at the sound of the familiar voice. "No," he breathed.

"Bruce!" It was Diana, hurrying back home on the paved walkway that ran alongside the road. She had that confident, yet feminine gait with which he had become so familiar over the past week. She was also being followed by two men who bore the unmistakable look of private security. It wasn't difficult to see that they regarded escorting the Princeton girl down the streets of Gotham to be a waste of their time.

He was both glad and dismayed to see her. Diana's timing for finally deciding to resume contact could not have been worse.

He leaned back, into the gun barrel. From her vantage point below and to his right, he was pretty sure she couldn't see it. Still, he had no doubt that the man who'd hijacked his vehicle could easily kill a woman.

"Keep going," murmured his captor.

"I can't," he whispered from the side of his mouth. "She'll know something is wrong."

"Bruce?" Diana frowned quizzically, approaching the carriage which by now was completely still. One of her bodyguards rolled his eyes, but both kept their distance. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing at all," he said with false ambivalence. "I'm terribly late for an appointment however, so-"

She placed a hand on the railing of the carriage. "Listen, Bruce, if you're upset about the other day I perfectly understand. The situation was downright awkward and I feel I owe you an apology for having left you in such straits. I can assure you that my invitation to the Princeton Ball was quite sincere, it's just that I was left with no choice but to-"

"I'll kill her," the voice whispered. "Five more seconds, and I'll reach right around you and blow her pretty little head off. Get rid of the bitch, and be quick about it."

"So you see," Diana was finishing, "I do value your company and your services and hold them in the utmost regard. My wish is that we can move on from-"

"I have to go," Bruce said suddenly. "I'll see you around." He lashed the reins again, setting the carriage in motion."

"So I guess it's true what they say about you," Diana called out after him, anger in her voice.

He didn't answer. Behind him, the gunman let out a breath he'd been holding. "Getting mixed up with that one. . .bad idea, Mr. Wayne. Maybe in your next life you can learn to mind your own-"

There was a sudden jolt of misplaced weight in the passenger section, slowing them to about half speed. What the-

The distraction was momentary and sudden but it gave Bruce all the opening he needed. Yanking on the reigns, he brought the carriage to an abrupt halt in the middle of the street. Having braced himself, he managed to keep his body in place. Except for his head. In a swift blur of motion he craned his neck under and away from the gun barrel.

The other man shunted forward, his pistol reaching past Bruce's ear and discharging next to his face. The explosion was deafening, stunning Bruce and scaring the horses to all hell and back. They took off, sending both Bruce and the masked man flying backward. He had just enough time to wryly note that his mask was a clown's face. What was it with these criminals?

But there was a third party. As he and his assailant wrestled for control of the gun, he saw _Diana_ of all people, struggling to maintain her balance inside the cab. She had been the source of the weight shift earlier!

He had no further time to reflect on this unreal scenario, as his opponent was a powerful, powerful man. Bruce had tried hitting him several times in the face and neck, punishing blows that still didn't seem to be able to finish the job. The man was his own height but at least a hundred pounds heavier. Overpowering him was a pipe dream.

The man managed to clasp his fingers around the grip which was when Bruce brought the point of his elbow crashing down on the man's hand. He heard the satisfying crunch of delicate palm and wrist bones, and was rewarded with a howl of pain from his opponent.

The man shoved him away with his good hand, toward the open back hatch of a carriage that had to be traveling at top speed. He managed to grab onto one of the twin door handles just before he was whooshed out onto the unforgiving ground.

The man had just now noticed Diana, who was holding onto something in the corner. He ripped off the mask, which had been knocked out of its original placement. Underneath was a ruddy, pockmarked face twisted into a murderous scowl.

"Diana!" shouted Bruce, warning her of the impending danger. As if that were necessary. She had eyes and could certainly see the man approach.

He gazed in astonishment as she whipped out a lumber axe- _his _lumber axe- from behind her back, and swung it in a devastating arc toward the man's knee. The reverberation of the steel axehead on his patella was sickening, as were the bits of blood and bone that trailed her blow.

He went down like a felled tree, the left leg now worse than useless. Savagely, Diana finished by turning around and using both hands to bring the heavy hilt down on his temple. Out of his misery, he wouldn't be waking up for quite some time.

The carriage slowed, Bruce quickly maneuvering the reins so that the change in speed wouldn't send them all hurtling forward. Once they finally did reach a stop, he still didn't turn back around. Was he hallucinating, or had Diana just. . .

"Bruce!" Diana climbed over the cab barrier and plopped herself down next to him. "Bruce! What's going on?"

He turned to her. Who _was_ this woman? "I haven't the slightest idea," he said. "What on earth did you just do?"

She looked puzzled by the question. "Well, by my reckoning I saved your life from. . ." She glanced meaningfully back down at the unconscious man. "Him."

He was stilling reeling in disbelief. "How did you even know?"

She shrugged. "When I saw you passing by a few minutes ago, your behavior was entirely unnatural. Your head was tilted back, and you kept making furtive glances over your shoulder. That, plus the brief flash of a pistol barrel that I caught. . .it wasn't all that difficult to arrive at a conclusion. The correct one, it would seem. "

He rubbed his temples. "Perhaps you've missed your calling, Ms. Princeton."

She laughed. "No, I think I'll leave the mysteries to you. But thank you, Bruce."

He leaned out of the carriage just long enough to spot the two bodyguards and another oncoming figure that he knew more by reputation than acquaintance. Zachary Princeton. He did not look happy.

"I think you should-"

"Right." Diana said tersely, climbing down and off the carriage. The last sixty seconds had been something of a blur, but in hindsight she knew her father would be horrified at what she'd done. Leaping onto a still-moving vehicle and engaging in physical combat of all things? He'd think she had lost her senses.

"Diana! What in the name of-" sputtered Zachary once he got within vocal range. He'd missed the most exciting recent events, but the fact that she was in Bruce's carriage rather than under the watchful eyes of her new bodyguards didn't help things.

She smoothed her skirts and straightened fully, refusing to back down under her father's angry gaze. "Everything is fine, father."

"It most certainly is _not_!" he thundered. "I let you out for a simple errand and come out to the sound of gunshots! And what do I find? You've dispensed with the guards that I assigned for your protection and are doing God knows what in Bruce Wayne's carriage! The same man, might I add, whom I expressly forbid you from seeing! Let me assure you, everything is _not_ fine!"

"Sir Princeton-" Bruce began.

"Stay away from my daughter, Bruce Wayne," interrupted Zachary, whirling on the detective. "If bluntness is required then so be it. Go back to your squandered fortune and your mysteries and leave Diana out of it. This is not your world."

"Father!" protested Diana, her cheeks warming at her father's words.

"I mean it, Bruce."

The detective was nonplussed. "I have the utmost respect for you, Sir Princeton. But please do not presume to command anything of me. Greater than you have tried."

The two burly bodyguards edged forward, waiting for their employer to give them the go ahead. It wouldn't be the first time they'd had to teach proper respect the hard way.

Surprisingly, it wasn't Zachary who reacted first, but Diana. She covered the distance between herself and Bruce in the blink of the eye, and wrapped him in a surprise embrace. "My father's right," she said, pulling back ever so slightly. "We can't see each other again."

Her words were quite secondary however, for her hand, between them, had slipped something into his pocket. He realized with a start just how clever this young woman could be.

She pulled back and surprised him again with parting kiss on the cheek. "It was a pleasure working with you Bruce."

"Come along Diana," Zachary gritted out through clenched teeth. "I'm sure Bruce can handle things with the constabulary." He took hold of his daughter's arm and began to steer her back toward the manor. Bruce watched dumbfounded as Diana walked away from him for the second time. Part of him was reeling like a schoolboy from her chaste little kiss. And then there was the folded sheet of paper she'd slipped into his pocket. What could it be?

With a start, he remembered the unconscious man still in his carriage. He climbed back into the driver's seat and checked the passenger compartment. The assailant was still unconscious, thankfully.

Using some rope and a very extensive knowledge of sailor's knots, he trussed the man up securely enough to remove him as a threat. He would make a little detour to local jail, and then head off to see Andrea Beaumont.

Oh, and Diana's message. He fished it out and unfolded what was clearly a pamphlet. It bore the title Daughters of the Amazon and the likeness of a beautiful woman holding a banner in Latin on the front. It was a meeting schedule.

And the next one was tomorrow.

* * *

Even as a child, Diana had always loved her father's study. It was her favorite room in the manor, with its maps and books and the large, ornate brass globe that rested next to the desk. It was where her father had instilled in her the love of knowledge that she carried to this day.

It was also where she'd received her sternest lectures, and today was to prove no exception.

"Let me see your hands," Zachary Princeton instructed as soon as they entered.

"Is this really necess-"

"Your hands."

She sighed and held them out, palms down. They were unblemished, which seemed to surprise her father. "You have that look," he said. "The same one after you've had a particularly brutal sparring match."

She looked guiltily downward. "it was a wood axe."

"Nothing lethal I hope."

"The man was trying to abduct Bruce, father. He had the barrel of a gun buried right there at the base of his skull. Would you have me do nothing?"

"I would have you safe and sound, away from Bruce Wayne where his sordid business can't harm you."

Diana had to refrain from rolling her eyes. "I'm afraid that this 'sordid business' is equally mine. _I_ was the one who hired him after all, and the timing of this attempt on his life-"

"Stop speculating," admonished her father. "You don't know that this had anything to do with you."

"Someone doesn't like my friends' murder being examined anew," she countered. "And Bruce was targeted as a result. Practically right outside of the manor, in fact."

"Which is why you need this protective detail now more than ever, my dear."

"And that has nothing to do with this 'Locke', I imagine."

His eyes flashed at the mention of that name. "The American is none of your concern."

"Queer, how people can't seem to stop telling me that. Perhaps I should just ask about him around town. I'm sure there's a perfect stranger out there who can still be more forthcoming than you."

"Focus that curious mind of yours elsewhere, Diana. The less you know about Cameron Locke. . ." he trailed off.

"A first name. That's something."

Her father sighed. "He came over some time ago. Savvy and cunning. He was well-connected, and managed to secure a number of very important steel and railroad contracts. His business, his _legal_ business at any rate, is conducted through the Harlequin Foundation."

Diana frowned, instantly recognizing the name. "They were the benefactors behind the new Gotham hospital. And the primary school. Are you telling me that Locke is in charge of the Harlequin?"

"His influence extends everywhere in this city," said her father. "The schools, the libraries, the churches. . .even the government. No one knows how he procured it in America, but the plain fact of the matter is, Locke is well on his way to owning Gotham. He's made himself indispensible, and it hasn't been pretty. Fraud, of course. But kidnapping as well. Extortion. Murder, even."

"You can't be serious." Diana rose to her feet. "Why does no one alert the authorities? The police?"

Her father laughed ruefully. "Oh, my dear. Ever the idealist. It's not that simple, and as I happen to be one of the few men of influence taking a stand against Locke, I think you should try to understand why I fear for you as I do. Even more so now that we have crazed gunmen accosting gentlemen in their own carriages."

"I. . had no idea." She placed a hand on her father's. "But I still don't understand why no one has told the police of this man's activities."

Her father was already shaking his head. "Who do you think is paying for the massive new renovations to the police station?"

The answer, unsettling as it was, couldn't have been more obvious. The Harlequin Foundation.

* * *

"Back so soon?" Gordon asked, surprises to see Bruce back at the police station. "And you have company."

"A friend," Bruce said, giving the bound assailant another push as he led him to the front desk. "I found this particular chap waiting for me in my carriage with a loaded pistol and every intention of using it."

Gordon surveyed the man. He was limping, something very clearly wrong with his leg, despite the splint Bruce had fashioned. His face also bore a purplish bruise. "Went none too easy on 'im then," commented the Commissioner.

Bruce chuckled. "He did try to kill me." No use mentioning that the assailant's wounds had been inflicted by Diana. "His leg will probably need medical attention, by the way."

"Indeed. Any idea why you were targeted?"

"Well, as a rule of thumb people try to kill me when they don't like the direction my investigation is taking. I shall take it as a good sign."

Gordon shifted his attention from Bruce to his captive. "Ugly fellow aren't you."

The man said nothing, though there was no mistaking the contempt in his scowl.

"Want to share with me why you tried to kill Mr. Wayne here? Who hired you?"

Nothing.

Gordon sighed. "Take him away," he commanded two nearby constables. They immediately took hold of the man and carted him off toward the cellblocks. He waited until they were out of earshot before addressing Bruce again. "Don't worry, I'll personally interrogate the bastard myself-"

Bruce was already shaking his head. "I would save the energy, were I you. The last man we had willing to talk was crucified to his wall in the police station of all places. Messages don't come clearer, I'm afraid. This man won't talk, I can guarantee you that."

Gordon crossed his arms thoughtfully. "We shall see. What next in your investigation?"

Bruce briefly considered telling him, but just as easily dismissed the idea. He trusted Gordon implicitly, but the fact remained that his men were not above being manipulated, or even corrupted. That someone had been able to gain access to the last informant's cell and kill him seemed too big of a coincidence to have happened without inside help. These cards would be played close to the chest, he decided. "Not sure, really. I suppose I'll just follow the clues as always."

Gordon thankfully seemed to accept this. "Well best of luck then, Bruce. And if you need assistance from my department. . ."

Bruce gave a respectful nod. "I know." And with that, he was gone.

* * *

For the trip to the Beaumont estate, Bruce opted to leave the carriage behind and simply take one of his fastest horses. Time was of the essence if he was to be making the trip, and as for the elements. . .he'd been through far worse. Another six months and the rapidly-expanding railways would have rendered the journey insignificant. Yet, as it was the only way to reach Andrea was through dense forest and the narrow horse trails worn in them.

The ride was exhausting. Galloping against the wind, it seemed at times the stallion would be blown off its hooves. The horse trails, covered in ice, provided horribly tricky terrain. Even for an experienced horseman such as Bruce the ride was quite trying.

"Let's hope you're worth it, Ms. Beaumont," he muttered from chattered teeth as he disembarked his mount. There was a horse shelter and hitching post to the side of the property which he used to secure the stallion. Then he approached the door.

The first knock told him something was dreadfully wrong. The door immediately swung open, the locking mechanism having been crudely pried away. Beyond the portal lay a dark, empty parlor, devoid of any sign of life.

He stepped inside. It was cold. He could still see his breath. No fires had been lit for quite some time.

He glanced to the right. A more obvious culprit, the broken window which would have long ago leeched out any ambient warmth. This was looking worse by the minute. He found himself desperately hoping that he wouldn't discover yet another corpse.

He lit what lamps he could find to gain a modicum of illumination. Then he set about an investigation of the main floor. It had been ransacked, thoroughly and professionally. Every drawer and cabinet was ajar. Photographs had been removed from their frames. He picked up one of them, a double portrait of the Beaumont sisters. One a brunette, the other a vivacious blond. Only the latter remained, and Bruce was beginning to doubt if there was anything but a corpse to find of Miss Andrea Beaumont.

He set the photograph down and did a survey of the damage elsewhere. No stone left unturned, which told him something very important.

They hadn't found what they were looking for. And they hadn't found her. No body, no blood, no sign of a struggle. The disarray throughout bore the signs of increasing frustration. He could imagine the intruders, violently breaking in hoping to surprise Andrea. Only to find her gone, along with. . .

Along with what? Incriminating documents? Records? And if so, incriminating to whom?

They were questions that only Andrea Beaumont herself could answer, though tracking her down would now be doubly difficult. She'd been smart enough to run, and barring a sudden onset of stupidity she would be smart enough to hide where no one could find her.

His mind raced at the implications. A single young woman traveling via carriage with limited funds. Or not limited, he supposed. She might have been able to take with her enough money to survive for the forseeable future. Still, if the people after were anywhere near as thorough as he was beginning to suspect, she would need familiar refuge.

He racked his brain for anything he'd been able to learn about her up until this point. Where would she go? Alone, her sister dead. Her father perhaps? The man was of no small importance in Gotham. Yet, just as easily he dismissed the notion. They were estranged, by all accounts. He'd left her the manor and a modest inheritance, but on the condition that she sever all ties with the Beaumont name. Apparently, she'd been something of an embarrassment in her later teenage years. In a strange way, Bruce could relate.

So, she wasn't with her father. And besides, if he knew she was in that sort of danger he'd have run to the police immediately. No police, ergo. . .

_Think, Bruce, Think._ . .

That was when he remembered the photograph.

* * *

"Hard at work?" observed Annabeth, tentatively entering Diana's room. Inside, the latter was studiously scrawling on a series of small notecards.

She looked up to greet Annabeth, beckoning her inside. "The meeting is tomorrow already, and with all this excitement I've barely had the time to go over my own notes."

Annabeth frowned. "I wasn't aware you needed notes for these meetings. Is this a recent development? A shortcoming of memory, perhaps?"

"It's supposed to be our biggest one yet," said Diana. "I just want to make sure that the Daughters of the Amazon leave a sufficiently. . .urgent impression for our audience.

Annabeth picked up one of the cards. "Suffrage for All in the 20th century", she recited. "Well, it's certainly incendiary enough."

"Good. If no one is at least a bit shocked, then I believe I've failed."

"But that's not why you're fussing over the presentation like a schoolgirl at her first show and tell." Annabeth crossed her arms. "You invited someone, didn't you?"

"Ann!" Diana began to protest. Her friend smiled triumphantly however, grasping her by the shoulders. "Bruce Wayne! I dare you to deny it."

Diana's jaw clenched. "As if you could proclaim it any louder."

Annabeth laughed. "Oh, Diana. You're truly smitten with that man, aren't you?"

"I am not!" she protested hotly. "In fact, Bruce Wayne is the. . .the perfect example of precisely the sort of domineering male elitism that we are trying to eradicate. I _did _invite him, but only because I believe that, like most men, he would genuinely benefit from the exposure to our ideals."

"What about Steven Trevor? Your new escort. Did you invite him?"

Diana rolled her eyes. "Ann, dear, some men are simply beyond help."

Something about the phrase seemed to unlock a pathway in Annabeth's memory. The blonde snapped her fingers. "By the way, I found out something you'll want to hear while I was at the post office. "

Diana had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. Ann, bless her heart, was a notorious gossip. She managed to keep Diana's secrets well enough, but any juicy tidbits of information she happened to pick up elsewhere were fair game. "I am ravenously curious," she said dryly.

Ann smile grew broader, despite the sarcasm. "They caught the killer."

Diana took a moment to process this information. "What are you talking about, what killer?"

Helen Beaumont's murderer. And the man who attacked those carnies the other day. He was caught earlier this morning."

Diana's eyes narrowed. "Ann, if you're joking. . ."

"I assure you, I'm not. Everyone's talking about it in town, and there will be a front page headline tomorrow for certain."

She tried to process this information. "Well how on earth was he apprehended?"

"Well that's the thing of it." Annabeth waited until the other woman was rapt with attention. "It's the same man who tried to kidnap Bruce Wayne this morning. Apparently, he confessed to the murders. All of them."

* * *

The photograph. Something about the photograph. . .

He returned to the portrait of the two sisters. Andrea and Helen. It hadn't been taken indoors, and the setting suggesting a hobbyist photographer rather than a professional. It was angled in such a way that the background was mostly faded into bleached white. But there was something else there. A tree, jutting up from the ground at an unnatural angle.

He knew that tree. Or remembered it, at any rate. He closed his eyes and traveled back to his childhood. Summer vacations, riding between Father and Mother in the family carriage as they traveled to Leaning Birch. As the story went, the original property owners had planted it as a concession to their son long ago. To their immense chagrin, he and his younger siblings used the sapling for all manner of recreation, their favorite pastime being to tug on the branches and see how far down they could bend them. Such treatment of a sapling did not come without repercussions of course, and so the tree grew slightly off the perpendicular, warped and leaning as if battered by a fierce wind. Even half a century later, when Bruce had seen the Leaning Birch for the first time, the tree was twisted and crooked as a result. Yet it still loomed higher than anything within a half acre. A natural landmark if there ever was one.

Leaning Birch. He could recognize that tree anywhere and if Andrea had spent enough time there as a kid to be photographed, it was a safe bet that her family also had a share of the property.

It was a bit of a shaky lead, but it was better than nothing.

* * *

"I demand to see the Commissioner this instant!" thundered Diana, shoving her way past the officer stationed at the police station's front desk. The belated order to stop caught in his throat, as the set of her jaw communicated quite clearly that for the moment she was no one to be messed with.

The two senior constables that stood between her and the Commissioner's office. Their brows furrowed, recognizing immediately that this woman was not supposed to be here. Their body language conveyed this as well, both men crossing their arms and positioning themselves between Diana and the door. "Can we help you, Ms. Princeton?" asked the taller one, a distinguished patrician type with silver hair and piercing grey eyes. His voice was amiable enough but Diana could tell he had no intention of letting her go even further.

She took a moment to compose herself and raised her chin, looking the lead officer directly in the eye. "I must speak with the Commissioner immediately, it is a most urgent matter."

The speaker made a small yet perceptible gesture to his colleague, indicating that his presence was no longer needed. The other man quickly made himself scarce, leaving Diana with the silver-haired policeman. When he made no move to address what she'd just said, she asked exasperatedly, "Who are you?"

"Captain Fivel Morrison at your service," said the man. "Unfortunately, the Commissioner is not to be disturbed at the moment. However if you would like to leave a message with me I can make sure that-"

"Is it or is it not true that you currently have a man in custody who has confessed to the attempted murder of the magician known as Mr. Miracle?"

Morrison's eyes immediately narrowed. "Where did you hear this?"

"I shall take that as a yes," Diana clipped, sidestepping the question. For all the teasing she directed toward Ann about her gossiping ways, it appeared that for once her friend's proclivitiy toward the rumor mill had paid off.

Morrison was no longer amused. "If you please, Ms. Princeton, we have serious business to attend to. I will neither confirm nor deny those rumors at the present time, but I'm sure that the Commissioner will be releasing new details on the case to the press as soon as they develop. Until then, I will have to ask that you leave and not repeat this spectacle again. For a woman, it is very improper and-"

"Commissioner Gordon!" Diana called, completely ignoring the captain's words. With a simple spin-and-duck maneuver she managed to circle completely around Morrison before he realized what she was doing. In the same fluid motion she grasped the doorknob and flung it open.

Both of the room's occupants immediately turned their heads at the surprise intrusion. Commissioner Gordon rose to his feet while the lanky, unkempt man shackled to an interrogation chair practically jumped in alarm. Morrison burst in a second later, not pleased at all that Diana had more or less gone straight through him.

"Is this him?" Diana demanded.

Gordon frowned at Morrison. "What is she doing here?"

"I, well, you see-"

"Oh for heaven's sake," Diana went on impatiently. "This is the man who confessed to the incident at the magic show, is not? Yes, I'd recognize that hideous face anywhere."

The Commissioner's jaw clenched. "Oh, he's confessed to a great deal more than that. Which you will learn of in due time. Fivel, please escort the Lady Princeton back-"

"That's not him," Diana interrupted yet again. She whirled on the man in the chair. "Why are you doing this? Why are you taking the fall for this man's crimes?"

"I-don't know what you're talking about," he sputtered. She could see the glint of recognition and fear in his eyes. After what she'd done to his knee it was hardly surprising.

"You tried to kill Bruce Wayne this morning but that was the act of an amateur. And you expect us to believe that you've orchestrated all these events? You're a lackey, not a mastermind. And yet you're perfectly willing to take the fall for whoever's pulling the strings-"

"Enough!" Gordon's raised voice was enough to momentarily silence the room. "Diana, your interest in the case is appreciated but I will remind you that _we_ are the constabulary and you are _not_. This entire incident is highly inappropriate and your father would probably have my head if he knew that I'd let you in the same room as our suspect for this long."

Diana pointed at the man, who was looking at her with the trepidation of a schoolboy. "This is not your man. Did you think it would be this easy, catching him? Some halfwitted attempt to kidnap Bruce Wayne and suddenly the man behind all of these dastardly acts is in custody? Bloody hell, but that's preposterous! This man has clearly been coerced, somehow, into confessing to crimes that he did not commit."

"I did," the man blurted out. "It was me who killed those girls-"

"Oh? And how did you did you do it? Who did you kill first? With what weapon?"

Gordon shot the man a threatening look, and the glare he turned back on Diana wasn't much more friendly. "You do not have the privilege of interrogating my prisoners, I don't give a damn who your father is! Do I make myself clear?"

"Just tell me you don't honestly believe this is the man."

"I will ask for the last time that you leave, Ms. Princeton. Please, do not test me."

Her mouth set in a stubborn line, she looked back and forth between Gordon and Morrison before angrily storming back out the way she had come, the hem of her dress swishing behind her. "With or without the Gotham constabulary, I will get to the bottom of this," she muttered audibly on the way out. "Count on it."

* * *

The closer Bruce got the sillier his theory sounded in his own head. It would certainly be fortuitous coincidence if the surviving Beaumont sister had indeed returned to Leaning Birch. As a detective and a rationalist, Bruce tended to eschew 'coincidence'.

Yet, he reminded himself, it was the best lead he had so far, and as journey's went ride to Leaning Birch would not take him too far out of his way. Even the elements seemed to have relaxed in their assault, with wind slowly fading and a fair amount of sunshine peeking through the cloud cover. For that, at least, he was grateful.

The logistical problems with his search soon became apparent as he approached the site of many a childhood vacation. Leaning Birch was a fairly large estate, with at least two dozen homes separated by a half acre or more. Knocking on each one would take up the remainder of his day alone.

He conjured up the blurry photograph. The angle used. The respective houses were situated in a wide and roughly concentric circle around the titular base. In the photograph, the tree had been leaning to the left and slightly toward the viewer. Which meant. . .

He rode up to the house that this line of reasoning told him was most likely the Beaumonts'. From the outside, it didn't show any signs of habitation. It certainly hadn't been maintained in quite some time. It looked much the Wayne summer house probably would have if Bruce didn't personally order for its regular upkeep.

He checked the hitching post. No horse. The adjacent stable also appeared completely empty. He had a sinking feeling even before he pulled to a stop that he'd just wasted even more valuable time.

Still, just to be sure. . .

He disembarked and strode up to the solid-looking door of the vacation house. He knocked, three firm raps against the wood.

There was nothing for ten long seconds. Then, just as he was about to turn around, he heard the sound of a lock being unlatched. Someone was there, no doubt inspecting him through the peephole.

The door opened to reveal Andrea Beaumont, in the flesh. She was dressed in a plain brown dress, her blond hair tied up for practicality's sake. She wore no makeup and didn't need to. Pictures did not do this woman justice- she was indeed a rare beauty.

This, he absorbed in the span of about three tenths of a second. Leaving more than half of that second for his eyes to take in the object that she was pointing at him.

For the second time that day, he was facing the barrel of a gun.

* * *

Diana was immediately mortified as soon as she left the police station. Convinced as she was that the man currently being held by Gordon was a scapegoat, her behavior had been unbefitting and worse, entirely unproductive. If she wanted to get to the bottom of whatever was going on, the last thing she needed to do was alienate the Chief of Police.

These events were clearly being manipulated, she thought. And whoever was behind the murder of her friends clearly had more sinister motives than the silencing of a few women's rights activists. They'd attempted to kill several others, including Bruce, managed to break into a secure jail facility to kill an informant, and now had a convenient impostor to take the blame.

It didn't make any sense. What in hell was going on?

She missed Bruce right then with an intensity far disproportionate to the time since she had last seen him. His cerebral analysis, his way of seeing through to the heart of a matter was the one thing she felt was missing from this case, in light of recent developments. Of course, wherever he was he had probably overturned some stones of his own. If all went well, perhaps they'd be able to secure a bit of time together after the Daughters of the Amazon rally. Assuming he showed up.

And assuming that he wasn't at this very moment getting into even more trouble.

* * *

Bruce hated guns, a maxim which extended in no small degree to those who used them recklessly or maliciously. To be confronted with one for the second time in one day was the crossing of a line.

He batted away the pistol with his cane, moving so fast and unexpectedly that Andrea Beaumont had to physically look at her hand to realize it was now empty. Still, she was quick. Lunging forward, she chopped viciously at his jugular with the outer edge of her palm. He grasped the cane laterally and brought it up to block her attack. But her reflexes were razor sharp as well. She allowed her hand to curl around the wooden piece and just as suddenly yanked backward, putting all of her body weight into the effort. The staff went flying and she surprised him yet again by twirling into a perfect roundhouse kick, her center of gravity low and her leg scything through the air mere fractions of an inch above his head. She completed the spin and feinted with a left jab before unleashing a powerful right hook toward his temple. Bruce caught the blow on his forearm and then grasped her wrist, using her own inertia and his grounded foot as a pivot to swing into the open doorway.

She raised her booted heel and stomped down on his foot, sending waves of pain coursing through his leg. He grabbed hold of her other arm and she fought like a woman possessed, flailing and striking for anything vulnerable. It occurred to him that this woman was prepared to kill or maim him if necessary, and had the skills to do it.

He opted for a simple chokehold, passing his right arm around the front of her neck while simultaneously placing the other forearm directly behind her neck. She realized what he was doing and brought her arm forward for an elbow strike to his kidney. He twisted just in time, catching the debilitating blow on his ribs. It still hurt like all hell but at least he'd avoided potential organ rupture. Finishing the chokehold technique, he passed his front hand through his bracing arm, wrapping it around his bicep into a vicelike grip. Against a man, he'd have increased the pressure to cut off his opponent's supply of air and blood. However, despite the fact that she'd tried to kill him, he still didn't consider Andrea Beaumont his enemy.

She finally stopped struggling. "Wait," she rasped, realizing that no measure of struggle would free her. "Don't kill me!"

"Kill you!" He spurted incredulously. "I don't want to kill you I want to help you. _You_ attacked _me_."

"Oh bollocks!" she wheezed.

"It's true!" he insisted. "I'll prove it to you." In one fluid motion he released the chokehold gently pushing her out of striking range. She whirled around to face him, confusion fluttering across her face.

"You're-you're not one of his goons then?"

"_Whose_ goons?" He demanded, going to retrieve his cane with no small measure of embarrassment that a woman had been able to take it from him so easily.

She squinted at him, ignoring the question. "Wait, you _do_ look familiar."

"Detective Bruce Wayne, if that helps." Bruce realized that they'd probably met as children, given that their parents ran in the same circles. Apparently, her memory was a bit sharper than his on the subject because recognition immediately glinted in her eyes.

"Bruce Wayne? What are you doing here? How did you even find me?" She turned around, as if just remembering that no one had closed the door. "Please, hold your response for a moment." She closed, locked, and double-locked the door. Psychologically reassuring perhaps, though Bruce was doubtful about its effectiveness. Someone determined to get in could easily ram the door off its hinges. And whoever was after her was certainly determined. The best locks in the world were worthless if they latched to an ordinary frame.

Satisfied that she wasn't going to attempt to harm him in the immediate future, Bruce clasped his hands together. "Where to begin. . ."

"Why don't you start with how you knew to find me here?"

"I didn't. This was more of a wild hunch than anything. I was as surprised to see you as you were to see me."

"Oh, I wasn't surprised," corrected Andrea. "Or rather, I assumed you to be one of the many individuals who are currently trying to kill me."

Bruce looked at her intently. "You asked earlier if I was one of 'his' goons. To whom were you referring?"

She gave a wan smile. "That is the golden question, isn't it? Before I answer though, I still want to know exactly what you're doing here."

"Fair enough. Diana Princeton hired me to investigate the murders of your sister and acquaintances-"

"Acquaintances?" She sounded incredulous. "They were not my _acquaintances_, Sir Wayne. They were my friends."

"Ah. My apologies." He paused. "Are you a member of the Daughters of the Amazon, by any chance?"

"I was, yes. But that's hardly important. Please, continue.

"Right. Well, the case was very confusing from the start, but it seems our killer remains intent on keeping the trail warm. I believe the same perpetrator was behind attempted murders at a magic performance in town as well as the torture and killing of a prison informant."

"Oh, he's guilty of a lot more than that," said Andrea. "You still haven't explained how you found me."

"Well, I stopped by your home first. You were gone."

"I take it things weren't in their usual pristine condition?"

"That would be an understatement. Fortunately, you fled before the men who ransacked your manor arrived. Trust me when I tell you that they were very thorough. I doubt a single piece of furniture survived their search. Even the drawers and cupboards were ransacked. They wanted you, but they also wanted something I assume you have. . ."

"Well, you know what they say about assumptions, Mister Wayne." She coyly sidestepped the question, clearly still hesitant about trusting him fully. "Let me guess, you saw the photograph. That's how you knew where to find me." She shook her head in self-reprimand. "The damned picture. It didn't occur to me until I was here that a bit of good thinking could connect me to Leaning Birch using that photograph.

Bruce frowned at the casual way she described what he considered to be a fairly remarkable deduction. "Something along those lines, yes. Though I was certain I'd come all this way for nothing. Where did you secure the carriage?"

Her gaze turned to the window. "I knew that leaving it here would be a certain indicator of my presence. So I went to the vacant home about a half mile north of here and left the horses and carriage there. I returned here on foot."

"Very clever."

"Why thank you."

"But you know you can't stay here forever," added Bruce.

Her chin went up in a way that reminded him sharply of Diana. "As long as my pursuers remain unaware of my location, I think I should be safe."

"Then there is someone you're strongly underestimating. If I was able to find you, this man will too. It is only a matter of time."

Despite her bravado, the thought had clearly occurred to Andrea as well. Her face fell just enough to reveal a hint of vulnerability. "Well you tell me then, Bruce Wayne. What choice do I have? Anyone else I willingly involve in this will only be placed in more danger, which I cannot allow." He could see the clench in her jaw. "What would you do?"

His mind raced with that very conundrum. It was a difficult question, especially since Andrea was playing her cards so close to the chest. All he'd been able to get out of her thus far was that his target, the elusive murderer, wanted her dead. And she seemed to believe he had the resources to do it.

"Have you considered going to the police?" he asked.

She gave him a dark look. "One small problem- they're as thick in this as anyone."

"You honestly believe that?"

"I _know_ it. Commissioner Gordon may be above reproach, but lower than that and you have a constabulary that is rife with corruption. Me going to the police is what set them onto me in the first place. Besides, from what I hear the police can't even protect their own prisoners. I've no desire to die nailed to a bloody wall!"

Bruce had a response on the tip of his tongue, but he held it. Pure instinct and preternatural senses. He'd heard something.

"What?" Bruce cut Andrea off with a raised finger to his lips. The sound was unmistakable now. Horses and a heavy carriage. His sixth sense was blaring furiously in his head.

Her eyes went as wide as saucers. "Who on earth. . ." She followed Bruce to the window where he was pulling back the curtains to get a look at the new arrivals. The vehicle that approached was large, the kind of paddywagon used by the police forces. Suitable for carrying at least ten men, by Bruce's estimate. The icy void in the pit of his stomach grew. These men, whoever they were, were not police- the cab had been stripped of any sort of identifying colors or emblems.

Behind him, he heard the telltale sound of a revolver being loaded. He knew without turning around that she'd retrieved the weapon, and it sounded like she knew how to handle it too. "There's a rifle in the pantry," said Andrea. "I'd wager my right arm those are his men outside."

Bruce watched them disembark. Men dressed in black trousers and overcoats with clown masks over their faces. They were carrying crowbars, hammers, and burlap sacks.

Unbidden, Dr. Thompkin's autopsy of the crucified informant sprang to mind. He'd have bet his own right arm that those sacks were full of knives, carpentry nails, and rags. To clean up the mess.

He turned to Andrea. "We need to get out of here. Now."

She had already retrieved the rifle and was busy locking the cartridge case in place. "Say what you will about the Americans," she said, jamming the magazine home with a loud click, "but they make a damned fine rifle."

"Andrea!"

"You go if you must, but I'm staying. It's pointless anyhow, they're between us and our horses. And I've no desire to be chased down and slaughtered out in the snow like common game. I'm through running."

Bruce knew there would be no convincing her otherwise. "Bloody hell," he murmured. "Let's do it then."

She cocked the carbine. "Let's."

* * *

**Author's Note**

Sorry again about the wait. But I haven't forgotten about this story and I will finish it :). Reviews are appreciated and they make my day, even if they're more critique than praise. Either way, let me know what you think!

-Cleric


	6. The Harlequin Foundation

As much as Bruce hated to admit it, the woman had a point. Running out the back was suicide, and the men would just run them down on horseback. A losing proposition. So. . .

He gestured to the rifle. "How good are you with that thing?"

She patted the walnut forestock lovingly. "This is a Winchester Model 1866 Carbine and Mr. Wayne, I can put thirty rounds through a mobile target in under a minute."

"Impressive," said Bruce, though he had no idea whether this was remarkable or not. "There's an upstairs window facing out onto the front of the property. From that vantage point you should be able to keep them fairly occupied with suppressing fire."

Andrea seemed to like this idea. "And what about you, Mr. Wayne?"

"I'm going out the back to circle around behind them. You just make sure to take down the armed ones first. And make sure you keep them out of the house."

"Best of luck to us both then," she said. And with that she was up the stairs, rifle in tow.

Bruce hefted his cane and gathered his cloak around himself. He quickly strode to the back door, through the kitchen, only to find that one of the men from the paddywagon had just flung the door open.

He hesitated. Bruce didn't. Without breaking stride, he punched the man in the throat. One more step and he had passed the stunned attacker enough to deliver a devastating chop to the back of the neck. Two blows, and the man was out for the forseeable future.

Bruce ran, ducking behind the logs piled next to the woodshed to make sure no one else had come around the back. He heard two shots ring out from the house, but he hadn't come around far enough to be sure that Andrea had hit her targets.

More shouts. Panic, confusion. They definitely hadn't been prepared for armed resistance. He heard the deeper boom of a shotgun from the front of the house, and the sound of whinnying horses. The poor creatures had to be frightened out of their minds.

He crept further, staying low to the ground. He rounded the front just in time to see a gout of blood erupt from one of the attacker's legs as he sprinted toward the front door. The man crashed into the ground spectacularly, his crowbar flying off into the snow. Now Bruce really was impressed. One could now add sharpshooter to the enigmatic Ms. Beaumont's list of talents.

He estimated a good fifty feet between himself and the cluster of black-clad men huddle behind the stable. They'd taken off their masks, no doubt for better visibility, and were gesturing urgently amongst themselves. They intended to circle around behind the house, not that he would let them. It was a lot of ground to cover unseen, but the sound of gunshots and frightened stallions would mask the sound. Plus, he had the element of surprise.

With all the strength in his legs, he sprinted across the open distance. One second. Two. And he was upon them like a nightmare. Four men, and they never saw it coming. He whipped the knob end of the cane with into one's nose, completely shattering it. He lashed out with his foot, catching another man at the knee joint and smashing bone and ligament. The third was in the process of swinging at him with the crowbar, but it was a hopeless effort. Swinging involves winding back, which takes longer than the swing itself and completely telegraphs what you're about to do to your opponent. Bruce simply waited until he'd wound all the way back before catching the man's right elbow. No acceleration, no swing. This one was dispatched with a knee to the groin and a punishing uppercut.

The fourth man hadn't been holding a pistol initially but when Bruce turned around there it was in his hand. It earned the man a savage snapkick powerful enough to break his jaw. He didn't stop, raising the pistol and squeezing off a thunderous round that whizzed just past Bruce's left ear. Instinctively, the detective went into a sideways dive, doubling the distance between them Before another shot could be fired, Bruce raised his cane and fired the pneumatic zipline. The _pfft _of rapidly expended gas was followed almost immediately by the crunch of bone and cartilage as the clawed grappling head thudded into his opponent's face. Though it hadn't been intended as an offensive weapon, the cane's grappling attachment could certainly be used as one. The black-clad assailant was out on his feet, swaying gently before collapsing face down into the snow.

The zipline was designed so that when fired, a portion of the kinetic energy would be diverted to a coil spring. An internal latch held it at bay while the line was extended, but it could be disengaged with the flick of a switch, send the line and hook reeling back in with incredible force. Bruce waited until the claw had been pulled back into the cane's hollow before walking over to inspect his handiwork. With his boot, Bruce nudged the man onto his back. His nose was already clearly broken. There was no sense in leaving him to suffocate with a mouth full of snow. Either way, he wouldn't be waking up for quite some time.

The shots stopped, and his attention immediately turned back to the cabin. He froze. Had Audrey ceased fire on her own, or had someone gotten into the house and stopped her. He listened closely. Dead silence. No scuffling feet or shouted commands. No return fire.

Ten seconds went by. Then, "Bruce?"

He let out a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. "I'm down here. I got four of them," he called up, walking around to the front of the house. As he did so, the scene came more firmly into view. It looked like a battlefield . Seven listless forms. Some dead, and some well on the way. The snow was red and pink with the blood of the dispatched henchmen and in places, little wisps of steam were floating up as warm fluid met freezing snow.

"Hold on, I'm coming down there," she announced, suddenly disappearing from the upstairs window. She reappeared a moment later, in the front door, her carbine still at the ready in her right hand. For a few seconds, there was silence as both caught their breaths and let excess adrenaline run its course. The entire encounter had taken less than two minutes after all.

"Well, that wasn't so bad," Andrea was the first to speak.

Bruce frowned at her. "We were lucky. Common thugs rather than trained professionals. They also didn't expect you to have any assistance. Whoever sent them won't underestimate you again."

"That's for bloody well sure," she said, walking over to the nearest man. He wasn't dead- yet. She reached down with the barrel of her Winchester and flipped up the grotesque clown mask. Her features instantly clouded over upon seeing the face underneath.

The crunch of the carbine's cocking lever was the only warning Bruce had of what she was about to do. "Don't!" he said sharply before she could pull the trigger.

Her eyes darkened. "This man, I recognize him. He was one of them. He helped kill my sister."

Bruce looked down at the terrified figure on the ground. His face was twisted with pain and fear, and he was already bleeding from a nasty gutshot. The pain must have been excruciating.

"Please," gritted out the man. His accent was foreign, difficult to place even for a master linguist such as Bruce.

"Please?" Bruce repeated. But nothing more was forthcoming.

"I'm going to do this, whether you approve or not." Andrea stated. "I watched what he did to them. I heard their screams. You have no idea what that's like!"

His eyes narrowed at her words. "You clearly know nothing about me, Ms. Beaumont." He let that comment hang in the air for a moment before letting out a resigned sigh. "But, as much as I detest killing, this man is beyond our help. Or anyone's for that matter. Put him out of his misery if you must, but be quick about it. We need to leave immediately."

He turned around without waiting for a response and headed toward the paddywagon. They could ride it back into town without overburdening or slowing his lone stallion. He had just begun to hitch his own horse to the assemblage when he heard a loud gunshot ring out behind him.

"Bloody hell," he murmured to himself. He knew that the deaths of their attackers would weigh on his conscience for some time. Despite their intentions to torture and kill Andrea, despite the fact that they had surely earned a bloody end, his own moral convictions howled in protest.

Andrea strode through the snow with a purposefulness that belied the fact that she had just killed a man. "I just need to get some things from the house," she said.

It didn't take long. She returned with a leather briefcase in tow, careful to step around the felled men that littered the snow. She took stock of Bruce in the paddywagon's front seat and nodded silent of approval of his plan. She didn't ask for his hand to help her into the carriage and he didn't offer it. And she didn't need it. Within moments she was seated beside him.

Wordlessly, Bruce lashed the reins and they were off, leaving the remnants of their bloody battle behind.

* * *

Diana would normally have been in bed early the night before a large rally, but all of the past week's excitement came with a price. In her case, it meant that she had a number of last minute tweaks to be made before the main event tomorrow. Transitions and filling in the gaps between speakers was were two such hurdles. Her audience, especially the newcomers, would have very limited spans of attention. Put them to sleep while setting up for a new speaker and they might well miss the entire rest of the evening. Which was why she had to devise little talking points, perhaps even a participatory activity. Something to get the attendees involved and thinking.

She was still furiously jotting notes at well past midnight when she heard the front doors open. The familiar footfalls of her father came next, but then the sounds of two more men entering as well. She frowned. How unlike her father, having company this late. The face of Cameron Locke immediately came to mind and the frown deepened. She set down her pen and opened her bedroom door further. Their voices were hushed, yet tense. This visit was no social call either.

Strain as she might, it was impossible to make out their words from upstairs. So, cinching her robe tightly, she waited until they had passed into the dining room and tiptoed down the stairs. By the time she reached the foot of the staircase, she could just barely make out the conversation. How odd it felt, eavesdropping on her father yet again. But in the end, her every instinct told her that her father was hiding something very important. Something that connected the strange behavior, the late night visits, all of it. Probably, she thought, something to do with Cameron Locke.

One voice, not her father's, sounded desperate. "Zachary, you have to help me. Talk to him, make him see reason!"

Her father's voice, strong, though laced with an undercurrent of worry. "You know as well as I do that there's no reasoning with Cameron Locke. We must bide our time-"

"Bide our time? Interrupted the third man. "How long would you have us wait? Until it's _your_ daughter found in a pool of blood?"

Diana gasped. What on earth were they talking about?

Zachary was speaking again. "We must bide our time until we can collect enough evidence to take to Scotland Yard. His influence doesn't extend there, of that I am certain. There is a crucial difference between the two and it is one that we must respect." He took a deep breath. "Locke's resources are too vast for us to go off half-cocked. The first blow _must_ be the killing blow. For all our sakes."

The first man seemed near tears. "That's all well and good, Zachary. But such a sanguine perspective comes easy to one who hasn't lost a loved one. Yet. Both Neville and I have the lives of our daughters taken by this madman. And I've another that will probably be dead by sunrise. You urge caution but the helplessness of a man in my position is more than I can bear." Diana was beginning to suspect that the speaker was none other than Lord Beaumont. He confirmed it with his next words. "I have many regrets in my life, Zachary. But sitting idly by while Cameron Locke clenches his bloody fist around this city will not be one of them. Evidence be damned, I _know_ he ordered them killed. Because of me. To make a bloody example!"

"Calm down, Charles."

"I will not!" roared the other man. "You keep to your plans and I hope they come to fruition before you are faced with the same sacrifice that I was. I for one plan to take action."

"Charles!"

Zachary's entreaty was met with the slam of the dining room door being flung open. Out stormed Charles Beaumont, his bearded jaw set with determination and recklessness. Moments later, Zachary Princeton and the other man, whom Diana did not recognize, came out into the Hall.

Charles threw open the main doors and left with another resounding slam. In all of his preoccupation he had completely failed to notice. Zachary's attention was a bit keener. He stiffened immediately upon discovering Diana at the foot of the stairs. Her fierce blush was as good as a signed confession to the fact that she'd been eavesdropping.

"We'll talk later," he said quietly. "For now, I have a disaster to avert."

Diana watched as her father strode to the special cabinet that stood by the main entrance. He opened it and retrieved his pistol, checking to make sure it was loaded and retrieving more ammunition just to be sure.

"Father!"

"Stay here, Diana. I'll be back."

She glared meaningfully at the revolver he held.

"I'll be back," repeated Zachary Princeton. And then he and the other man were gone.

* * *

"Thank you," said Andrea suddenly.

For a ride that had borne nothing but darkness and silence, the two words were enough to tear Bruce's mind away from its own complex introspections. "For what?" he asked.

"For your help. It occurs to me that without you I might not have been able to fend off those men. Or even known they were coming until it was too late. You went out of your way, and I appreciate it."

"You're welcome," said Bruce stiffly.

She turned to look at him, her face cast in stark relief by the driving lantern and nighttime shadow. "I've never killed anyone before. Not until today, at any rate."

Bruce said nothing.

"I thought it would be so easy. I swore to myself that if I ever found the men responsible for my sister's murder, I would kill them. No hesitation, no recrimination. And do you know what truly frightens me? That I was right. It _was_ easy. It was easier than hunting game. I enjoyed it."

"What a repugnant sentiment," Bruce muttered.

Andrea smiled sadly. "You're a man of strong moral convictions, Bruce. I envy that. But I can't afford to share your certitude." Her voice rose. "If that makes me 'repugnant', then so be it. But just remember, those men attacked us. There was not an innocent soul between them, and they would have done far worse to you and I had they prevailed."

Bruce knew she was trying to make him feel better, and he even appreciated it. But her insistence on talking about the issue was having the opposite effect. "Let's change the subject, shall we?" he suggested."There's still a great deal you need to tell me."

"Gladly. All in good time."

"Sooner, rather than later," said Bruce. I want to be able to get you to Gotham Railway in time for the earliest train."

"Train?" sputtered Andrea. "Excuse me, but I will _not_ be taking a train-"

"It's the most expedient route out of Gotham," Bruce replied, taken aback by her forcefulness.

Andrea was shaking her head. "What on earth makes you think I'm leaving Gotham?"

"It would be suicide not to-"

"I don't give a damn. Gotham is my home and I will not be chased away like a common pest. I'm not scared of him."

"Scared of who?"

"And I'm certainly not going to leave while he remains free," she went on, ignoring the question.

He massaged his temples wearily. "This is madness. You don't even have a place to stay."

"I have friends."

"Friends whose lives you're willing to endanger?"

The question hung between them like an icy cloud. "I will figure something out."

Bruce didn't answer because they were nearing the Wayne Manor. He'd intended to stop by regardless, but only so he could gather some provisions and funds to see her safely out of the city. That she would not want to leave had never even occurred to him.

Andrea smiled, taking his silence for assent. "So its settled then. As for my safety, I appreciate the concern but I can certainly take care of myself."

"Apparently so can all the young women in Gotham," he muttered, thinking of Diana.

"Not all of them," said Andrea softly.

Bruce realized in hindsight how his words must have sounded and decided to remain quiet until they were safely inside. There was nothing to be gained in inadvertently upsetting this woman further, especially given all she'd been through. "Stay here," he said.

"Pardon?"

"You need a safe place to stay, and I can think of few better candidates than the manor."

"Oh, that really isn't necessary-"

He met her eyes as they slowed to a halt. "I have enough on my conscience for today. "Loosing a wanted woman out onto the streets of Gotham to fend for herself would be inexcusable. There are several guest rooms and you're welcome to any of them."

"What of your neighbors?"

He gestured to the thickets of forest that surrounded the manor. "I have none."

She crossed her arms. You save my life and offer me a place to stay. I find myself in your debt, and I'm not sure how I feel about that."

"Forgive my directness, but I don't think you have much choice." He disembarked from the paddywagon and extended a hand to help her down. "Be careful not confuse stupidity with pride."

"I shall try," she said sarcastically.

Bruce unlocked the manor's doors and entered. "The fact remains that this is perhaps the most secure location in all of Gotham, at least for you."

"I can tell," she remarked , her gaze making a cursory sweep of the manor's interior.

Bruce didn't seem to mind. "This place has quite a few tricks up its sleeve."

Andrea tilted her head quizzically. "How can I be sure I can trust you?"

He seemed disappointed by the question. "I'm off to prepare dinner. I don't know about you but I'm bloody famished." He gestured around the large hall and adjacent stairwells. Make yourself at home, please. We'll eat, and then you can reward me with a story."

"Alright."

Bruce nodded. "As for how you know you can trust me, the answer is quite simple, isn't it? If you couldn't, you would be dead."

Leaving her with that, he disappeared in the kitchen to fix a meal for two.

* * *

Eduardo Carrasco entered his employer's office with an ease that belied his extraordinary bulk. Seven feet and 450 pounds of pure muscle, he moved with the athletic grace of a man half his size. That, coupled with the right mixture of competence and ruthlessness had earned him a position as Cameron Locke's right hand man. 'You will be a bane to all of my enemies,' Locke had told the Spanish immigrant upon appointing him to the role. So far, the words had been prophetic. Assassination, kidnapping, extortion. . .Carrasco excelled in them all.

"Eduardo," greeted Locke. His chair was turned away from the doorway and from this vantage point it appeared that he was massaging his face. "Just a moment."

Carrasco waited politely for a few more moments before his employer swiveled his chair toward him. Locke's face had a waxy, unnatural sheen to it. Even more so than usual. Carrasco often wondered how much of it was pure makeup. Some, certainly. But his curiosity was not overwhelming Whatever afflicted his employer, whether a skin disease or some obsessively vain compulsion, every man was entitled to his secrets.

"You have a report for me?" Locke went on.

"Sí. Our scapegoat has confessed to the murders."

"Excellent. And have you learned why he failed in his original task?"

"Yes, although it's a rather nonsensical story."

Locke frowned. "I'll be the judge of that."

With a nod, Carrasco continued. "One of our sources in the police department has shared the statement he gave to the authorities. It seems he was waiting in Bruce Wayne's carriage as planned. Using a pistol, he compelled Mr. Wayne to leave toward a more remote area where he could execute him and hide the body. However, and this is where the account becomes suspect, in my opinion, he says that Diana Princeton-"

"Zachary Princeton's daughter?" asked Locke, straightening in his seat.

"Yes. He says that suddenly she was in the carriage with them. She shattered and his leg with a wood axe at which point Wayne quickly subdued him.

Locke looked stricken. "He told you he was bested by a _woman_?"

"Yes."

"Well. There's no way he could be lying, is there? Who would concoct such a humiliating story?"

"Yet it seems impossible."

"Yes it does. But I believe him." Locke stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I knew there was something different about that woman. Eduardo, I want you to keep an eye on her. Have our men in the constabulary do the same. I want to know where she goes and what she does."

"Speaking of which, there is something else you should know," Carrasco replied. "Our man Morrison reported that Ms. Princeton stormed into the station, demanding to speak with the, ah, 'suspect'. She caused quite the scene, apparently, insisting that he wasn't the culprit after all."

"How dangerously perceptive," mused Locke.

"If I may, we should take a more proactive stance toward the Princeton girl. I can make her disappear-"

"No," Locke quietly interrupted. "We still need her as leverage. Zachary Princeton is too important and I want him focused on his role, not mad with grief over his daughter. After he has served his purpose, we can dispose of both-"

_Blam!_ The unmistakable report of a gunshot startled both men, interrupting Locke's words. They were still for a moment, and then an unspoken rapport was exchanged. Locke gave a grim nod to his enforcer and Carrasco returned the gesture.

"Take care of it."

"Sí." Carrasco trotted out and down the stairs swiftly yet efficiently. The gunshot had come from outside of Locke's residence, at the front. He patted his holster just to make sure he was armed. He doubted he would need the pistol though. He rarely did.

Carrasco flung open the doors and stepped out into the winter night. He recognized the man standing out front immediately. Charles Beaumont, indeed. It wasn't hard to imagine why he was here.

"Senor Beaumont," called Carrasco, striding toward the man. "What are you doing?"

Beaumont fired again, a harmless shot to the sky. "Go away! Tell that bastard Locke to come down here and face me himself!"

Carrasco chuckled. "No, that simply will not do. If you leave immediately, Senor Locke will forgive this most egregious affront-"

"Oh, up your arse!" spat Beaumont. The pistol leveled, pointing at Carrasco. "He killed my daughter! Or he had some mercenary bastard like you do it!"

"No, they've actually apprehended the man responsible for that unfortunate series of events. You're quite mistaken."

"Don't patronize me!" Beaumont let off another round, this one pinging just over Carrasco's head. We both know that those murders were Locke's doing, because I wouldn't go along with that insane plot of his. Well, congratulations. I've lost the only thing that matters to me now. I have nothing to lose!"

Carrasco tutted in disappointment. "Oh, but that is where you are so very wrong." He moved faster than Beaumont had a dream of following. Massive, yet dexterous hands grasped Beaumont's wrist and pinched. The smaller man howled in pain as Carrasco found the right nerve cluster, his pistol clattering to the ground.

"You should have left when you had the chance," Carrasco went on conversationally. His hand came up to encircle Beaumont's entire neck. "I'm afraid I can't let you walk away now."

"Yes you can." Another familiar voice. Carraso realized that he hadn't even heard Zachary Princeton approach. He let out an irritated sigh. "Turn around, Senor Princeton."

"Let Beaumont go."

"He attacked my employer-"

"He hasn't even seen Locke. He's a harmless old man."

"Firing a pistol in the middle of the night at the home of a respected businessman is hardly my idea of harmless," countered Carrasco. His grip was just light enough that Beaumont's trachea wasn't crushed. Yet. The man was certainly having difficulty breathing.

"He is hurt by the loss of his daughters. Irrationality is hardly surprising under such circumstances."

Carrasco considered this for a few second. Then he released the older man, who promptly fell into a heap on the ground. "Very well. I will be keeping the pistol however."

Zachary nodded, trying to hide his relief. "Certainly."

"And if he steps foot on my employer's property again. . ." The threat did not need to be said.

"He won't." Zachary knelt down to help the gasping Beaumont to his feet. "I promise."

Carrasco retrieved the discarded pistol and tucked it into his waistband. "Get him out of here then. I will hold you to it."

* * *

Bruce returned from the kitchen two hours later to find Andrea Beaumont sleeping. She'd simply drifted off on the couch, her head resting back against the cushions. He noted with some amusement her delicate snore. The poor woman, she must have been exhausted.

He briefly debated whether to leave her there. She did look peaceful, but sleeping like that she was bound to wake up sore and irritated. Better to take her to one of the guest bedrooms.

Removing his cooking apron, he approached the couch, knelt down, and scooped her up in one fell swoop. The snoring paused briefly as he adjusted her in his arms. For a moment he thought she might awaken. But then her head lolled against his chest and the sounds of her sleeping resumed.

Light as she was, the trip to the guest bedroom didn't take very long at all. Gently, he laid her on the bed and slid a pillow underneath her head.

"Get your rest," he said quietly. "But tomorrow, you're helping me get to the bottom of all this."

In reply, he heard nothing but the sounds of gentle slumber. How peaceful she looked now. It was almost enough to erase from his mind the image of her executing a man at point blank range. The two were certainly hard to reconcile.

He let out a deep breath. What had happened that morning was a matter for tomorrow's rumination. For now, they were all better off getting a good night's sleep.

* * *

Diana did not sleep all night. How could she, with her father taking off into the night like that? She knew that he was more than capable of taking care of himself. He was a veteran, a military hero and shrewd businessman. She'd seen Zachary Princeton silence critics with just a stern glare. She'd seen him make arguments in front of Parliament!

Perhaps that was why this situation bothered her so. This Locke. . .he scared her father. The man who was afraid of nothing couldn't hide that fact, much as he tried.

"Come back father," she whispered sitting, on the stairs and leaning against the railing. Her gaze never left the front door. And it wouldn't. Not until he came home.

Morning sunlight was streaming through the windows by the time the front door finally opened. Diana's breath caught in her throat and he painfully straightened to make sure. . .

It was her father. He looked tired, his eyes bloodshot from exhaustion and lack of sleep. There was snow on his coat and beard, and his teeth were still chattering from the early morning cold. "Diana," he said, concern etched in his voice. "What are you doing on the stairs?"

She knew that if she said anything she would burst into tears. And she detested tears. So she took a deep breath and stood to regain some degree of composure. "I'm glad you made you made it home safely, father," she said at last.

He smiled comfortingly. "Nothing will happen to me, my dear. Or to you. I promise you that."

She nodded hurriedly. Wanting to believe him. But deep down, she couldn't help but wonder if that was a promise her father could honestly keep.

* * *

**The Next Morning**

"Impropriety abounds," said Alfred cheerfully, strolling into the study where Bruce was working on yet another contraption. The detective tightened a few more screws before removing the clunky magnifying headgear he was wearing.

"Impropriety? I've no idea what you could be talking about."

"Try the young woman currently asleep in the guest room," Alfred replied. "Honestly Master Bruce, I don't know how you keep track of all of them. And I was getting rather fond of the Princeton girl too, shame you've replaced her like that."

Bruce shook his head. Alfred's teasing could be merciless at times, especially when coupled with his perennially dry demeanor. "Well you're certainly one to point fingers, Alfred. You disappear off with the good doctor and suddenly no one hears from you until the most inauspicious hours of the morning. I shudder to think what you've been up to."

A knock on the open door cut off Alfred's retort. Both men turned to see Andrea Beaumont in the doorway, standing just outside as if hesitant to come in. She should hav looked ridiculous wearing Bruce's shirt and trousers, but to her credit she wore the outfit with a confident, feminine grace. "You'll have to forgive me for borrowing from your wardrobe," she said, noting the way both men were staring at her.

"Erm, Think nothing of it," Bruce said.

"And do come in,"Alfred chimed in a moment later. He beckoned with an outstretched hand and she responded, stepping into the bizarre room filled with models and contraptions of every sort.

The butler kept his hand outstretched. "Alfred Pennyworth, personal assistant to Bruce. How do you do?"

She daintily took the proffered hand. "A pleasure, Mr. Pennyworth. I am Andrea Beaumont. And. . .I suppose I am a guest for now."

Alfred chuckled. "We intend to treat you as such, my dear. Don't let that unsmiling face fool you, by the way. Master Bruce is hospitable to a fault."

"Oh, I know. Awaking to a drawn bath and coffee is not a common experience for me these days." She turned to Bruce. "Thank you." The words were punctuated by a distinct rumbling which immediately brought a blush to her face.

Alfred turned to Bruce. "I'm tempted to take back my glowing praise. You've left this poor creature starving all night, for heaven's sakes! We shall have to prepare a proper breakfast immediately."

Bruce rolled his eyes and stepped from behind his workbench. "I spent two grueling hours in the kitchen preparing dinner last night, only to find our guest asleep when I came to bring the food."

"Asleep? How rude?"

"Yes, very unbecoming. Though I confess she does have a rather delightful snore-"

Andrea opened her mouth in vain, embarrassed yet again. "I'm-I'm." It didn't take long to realize that both men were having fun at her expense. Unacustomed as she was to being teased, Andrea crossed her arms and set her jaw stubbornly. "Brilliantly funny, the both of you. And I can fix my own bloody breakfast if that's alright."

Bruce didn't exactly crack a smile (miracle though it would have been) but she did see the ghost of one in his eyes. She found herself revising her opinion of the detective. He could be a bit of a 'grimsby' as her father used to say. But the real Bruce was a bit more complex than that. And he apparently had a sense of humor as well.

"Help yourself," he said. "There's a good portion of last night's meal in the icebox as well." His tone grew serious. "After you've eaten, we talk. Understood?"

She gave a wildly exaggerated salute. "Yes sir!"

* * *

Diana had scarcely gotten out of the door before Steven Trevor was in front of her, customary grin in place. He looked archetypically handsome as ever, and just as aware of the fact. What he was doing outside of her home she could only guess. But for the moment it left her awkwardly positioned between three men she wished to be rid of immediately. Steven, of course, and the two bodyguards behind her.

"Diana, darling! I-" He trailed off, noticing the two black-clad men flanking Diana. "Ehm, how do you do?" he addressed the men.

"Fine," they said in unison.

Diana tried her best to manage a pleasant smile. "Trevor, what are you doing here?"

"My dear, I suspect you know the answer to that question."

"Humor me then," she said.

"Is it not enough that I missed seeing you?"

"Steven-"

He clasped her hands in his, squeezing a bit too tightly while he was at it. "Take a ride with me Diana."

She frowned at him. "Out of the question. You know I have a rally to host tonight."

"Right. The Daughters of the Amazon." At least, she thought, he was able to hide the derision in that statement. Most of it at any rate. He sighed. "Don't worry, it will only take a few hours. I want to show you something, courtesy of my new employers."

Diana did recall him mentioning that he had come into money recently. She cocked her head inquisitively. "New employers?"

"Yes. Marvelous opportunity, I daresay. Tell me, have you heard of the Harlequin Foundation?"

The words crystallized like ice in her mind. _Yes_, she thought. "No," she lied, scrambling to put this together. Steven Trevor was actually working for the Harlequin foundation? "I thought you were still on commission," she heard herself saying.

His smile broadened. "Oh, I am. I'm employed by the Harlequin Foundation in a consulting capacity."

She looked back at her bodyguards, her mind racing. _The Harlequin Foundation?_ "That sounds. . .fascinating, Steven. However, as you can see I already have quite a bit of company for the day." The bodyguards would never leafe just on her say-so. But knowing Steve. . .

His eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed again in determination. "Gentlemen!" The dapper admiral walked around the trio to clasp both bodyguards on the shoulder. "What would you say to letting the lady and I enjoy the afternoon together? Alone."

"We're supposed to keep a keen eye on her all day," the one started to say.

"Yes, yes. But honestly, if you can't trust her with me. . ." He let the thought hang unfinished. "You _do_ know who I am, correct?"

A sigh. Diana wasn't sure if it was her or the bodyguard. She'd forgotten how downright annoying the admiral could be, even if unintentionally. "Only a few hours?" asked one of the bodyguards dubiously.

She will back here in four hours if not less," Steven promised. "And I will be sure to note to Lord Princeton the exemplary dedication shown by his employees."

After that, it was a predictable series of events that led to Diana sharing a carriage with a man whose company she found completely abrasive. Yet, irritating or not, he was a part of this whole Harlequin mystery. Her father had mentioned it, and it was connected with that repulsive Locke. And perhaps even the murdered girls.

So she would accompany Steven on this outing, and she would milk him for every last bit of information she could.

In all, it was fairly easy to hide these warring emotions from her face. Perhaps, she thought, she was good at this detective business after all.

* * *

By that morning Eduardo Carrasco should have completely forgotten about the episode with Lord Beaumont. The pathetic old_ cabrón _was little more than an embarrassment to himself. However, there was one key fact that would not allow the incident to stray from his thoughts.

The men he had sent to eliminate Andrea Beaumont had not returned.

These were not the brightest of thugs but they were not stupid either, especially where their continued well-being was concerned. They knew that Locke had no shortage of cruelty reserved for those who failed, or worse, betrayed him. It should have been a simple mission. He wouldn't even have sent that many men save for the fact that she had eluded them once before.

Locke was off tending to Harlequin matters, meaning that at the moment he had two-thirds of the richest and most influential citizens of Gotham in the Foundation's meeting hall. Carrasco was not allowed to attend these meetings but he did not mind. He had no delusions of grandeur, and as long as he was well-paid, whatever Locke chose to share with him was completely up to the other man's discretion.

With his employer gone, Carrasco was left to tend to the organization's more ruthless enterprises. So here he sat, alone in an office waiting for a report that should have come hours ago. Methodically, he ran through as many plausible scenarios as he could. Certainly no reason to panic, just yet, he reasoned. Still, if another couple of hours passed. . .

He drummed his fingers absentmindedly on the oak desk. If in two hours he had not heard from his men, he would have to ride out there himself. If it came to that, he almost hoped for their sakes that they were already dead.

* * *

"That was a fairly scrumptious meal," Andrea complimented Bruce as she finished the last of her plate. "I hate to say it but I could learn a thing or two from you."

He leaned forward on the couch across from her, elbows on his knees. "Thank you. But at the moment I'm far more interested in what I can learn from you."

She took a long sip of her tea, setting the beverage down with care and deliberation. "I only have one request, and that is that you do not interrupt me."

"Agreed."

"Very well. Now, as I'm sure you know my father and I are not on the best of terms. There are a number of reasons for this, but one is that around six or seven years ago, my father entered into a business arrangement with a man named Locke."

"Locke. . ." Bruce mused. "Why does that name sound familiar?"

"No interruptions, remember" came the gentle rebuke. Nonetheless, she was the one leaned forward. "Mr. Wayne, have you ever heard of the Harlequin Foundation?"

* * *

"Yes," Diana was saying as they cruised down the road in Steven's carriage. "I believe I have heard the name before."

"Marvelous organization," Steven replied. "Imagine a bank with the privilege of investing in its own capital and resources."

Diana was confused. "It sounds a bit risky. Are you saying that this Harlequin Foundation is a bank?"

"Well, there's quite a bit more to it than that," the admiral said defensively. "But let us, for argument's sake, treat it as such. Tell me, how does a bank generate profit?"

Diana, uninterested in an economics lesson, shrugged and gave her best confused smile.

"I'm serious," prodded Steven, taking just a second to ease up on the reins as they encountered a turn. "Surely there's some profit to be made for a banker. How does he acquire money?"

"This hypothetical banker?"

"Yes."

Diana sighed out of impatience that she barely had to feign. "He extends loans out to the community, charging a higher interest rate than is paid to the lenders who deposit their money to the bank. The profit he makes is the difference between the interest he collects by loaning the money and the interest he pays in holding it."

Steven mulled over that one for a moment. "Close enough. And what sorts of loans does a bank grant?"

"Well, loans for houses-"

"Think bigger," interrupted her escort. "Railroads, telegraph lines, steam ships. Transactions worth many millions of dollars. But there's a bit of risk, you see. The bank doesn't know that it will ever see that money back. Give it to a businessman and his business might fold the next week."

She laughed. "Honestly, did you go to all this trouble for a morning ride just so you could regale me with your newfound interest in banking?"

"My very lucrative interest in banking."

"Well I don't see what it has to do with you. You said you were still enlisted. Are you the official banking advisor to the military now?"

The admiral scowled, unaccustomed as he was to being openly mocked. "The Harlequin Foundation is no mere bank because, through various subsidiaries, it _owns_ the very core industries that require its funds. Less risk, more profit. Think of it as a consortium, with its banking component accounting for only a small fraction of the whole. A larger part, by far, is the Harlequin Foundation's technological wing. Which is where I come in."

Her eyes narrowed. "Wait, what kind of technology?"

* * *

"Weapons," Andrea was telling Bruce. "Locke absorbed my father's bank into the Harlequin Foundation, all as means of financing his weapons research program."

"Troubling," agreed Bruce. "But hardly illegal."

"Oh, not in the slightest. Certainly not since the Harlequin Foundation acquired an exclusive contract with the British Royal Armory."

"A contract? What for?"

"I haven't the slightest idea. But I'm getting ahead of the story. You see, though on the surface this merger between my father's bank and Locke's Harlequin Foundation was legitimate, it was clear that something was amiss. My father began to make more money in a month than he'd ever made in a year. A tall order, I assure you." Her voice stopped and Bruce looked up to find the woman across from biting her lip. Her eyes betrayed a profound sadness at the memories she was invoking. "The money changed him. His habits, his vices, even the way he treated his family. He would have these strange men from the Harlequin Foundation to dinner every week. One day Locke himself came to visit. He was sinister and unpleasant and my sister and I hated having to share a dinner table with him. Then he made a comment about us. The specific words escape me but their meaning was as vile and repulsive as anything I've heard a man say." Her face was twisted in anger now. "He said this in front of my father. And my father said nothing. What dwindling respect I had for that man vanished in an instant. He had never told me what it was exactly that this Harlequin Foundation was up to, and I resolved that night to find out.

"So I broke into his study. Picked the lock actually. I rummaged through it for nearly two hours before I found anything useful about the Harlequin Foundation."

"What was it?"

"A ledger and a map. I could make neither head nor tail of the map, but the ledger was certainly informative." She got up to retrieve her the leather briefcase she had brought with them. "See for yourself."

He accepted it but settled for a perfunctory glance inside. There was a sheaf of papers, hurriedly thrown together. He would take the time to analyze it later in the comfort of his study. "Tell me about your sister," he said. "What does she have to do with this?"

Andrea crossed her legs, her look one of mild reprimand. "I'm getting there, Bruce. Now, as I said, I took the ledger from my father's office. After reading it, and some accompanying records, I realized that the Harlequin Foundation was importing twice as much tonnage in raw materials as would be needed for their output to the Royal Armory."

"Perplexing," Bruce agreed. "But not necessarily illegal."

"Oh I know. And that's why I went to my good friend Scott Freeman, one of the investors in the Harlequin Foundation." She pursed her lips. "You probably know him as Mr. Miracle."

* * *

"You create weapons." Diana repeated, the disapprobation clear in her tone. "How noble."

"I don't create weapons, I broker them," Steven corrected. "And it is a fabulously lucrative enterprise."

"But why? We are at _peace_, for heaven's sakes."

"A fragile peace, my dear. The Germans, for example, would love to see our naval supremacy ended. And our colonial strength decimated for that matter. They've been mobilizing for over a decade. They've even allied, _formally_, with Italy. All of Europe is running this race, and we cannot afford to fall behind, a fact that you should be grateful our leaders recognize."

"For such a catastrophic state of affairs, you can barely contain your excitement," Diana observed wryly.

"Oh, I am excited," the admiral replied. "You have no idea the sorts of technologies the Foundation's weapons division has been perfecting. Faster battleships, deadlier firearms, man-portable explosives. . ." He smiled triumphantly as the carriage came to a stop. "Ten years from now, Britain will still have the grandest navy in all the world. But we will also have the most lethal standing army on the entire continent, if not also the world." He tied the reins. "The winds of change are here, and I bloody well am excited to be a part of it. To be a part of ensuring British supremacy for the century."

Diana just shook her head. "The same old Steven. Why have we stopped, by the way?"

Her escort waited to answer until he had fully dismounted. "Even I know when I've talked too much. I've no desire to inflict my business upon you for the remainder of our time together. So I thought we might stop for tea. Like civilized people."

"You know I have to be back soon-"

"Join me, and I will not only attend your rally but I'll bring a dozen enlisted men with me."

Diana found herself nodding. She had found Steven's words interesting, though not for the reasons he suspected. If she kept pressing him about the Foundation however, he would grow suspicious.

She surveyed the tea shop, a quaint one-level business located ideally for travelers taking the forest paths. Warm tea in this weather would not be the most torturous thing she'd ever endured."

Steven clapped his hands together as she readied to climb down. "Tea it is then!"

* * *

Eduardo Carrasco had given himself a two hour deadline but after the first hour he found himself reneging completely. Something had gone wrong, and wasting even more time was not going to help matters.

He checked, loaded, and holstered his pistol, more out of a concession to Locke's wishes than anything. Eduardo had yet to encounter the opponent that his own physical prowess could not overcome. And if these men had failed. . .he would kill them with his bare hands.

He set out on his horse, Adriano, a scrappy Belgian that had been purchased for its bull-like strength and stamina. It was the only one he'd ever ridden that could carry him long distances, and so he'd grown quite attached to the beast. It reminded Eduardo of himself, and he held Adriano in higher esteem than most of the humans he encountered.

The intelligence on Andrea Beaumont's whereabouts had not been easy to come by. Fortunately, Carrasco remembered the location. It was on the edges of the city, land rich in both its quality and the income of those it belonged to. Eduardo remembered stealing apples from seasonal holdings like this in his childhood. Many a beating he had he received at the hands of an irate constabulary, who informed him in no uncertain terms that his kind was not welcome there.

They had been very. . .formative experiences.

He passed a sign that read 'Welcome to Leaning Birch'. He had arrived, and the first thing he noticed was the silence. Dead, stark silence. He frowned, easing Adriano into a gentle trot. Cold, dark eyes surveyed the expanse of land and the few cottages that stood out against the snowy backdrop.

That was when he spotted the bodies. He hastily retrieved a pair of field glasses from his saddlebag and peered through them, just to be sure.

"_Madre de Dios_," murmured Carrasco, edging closer to the clearing in front of one of the far cabins. He tied his horse to the hitching post and went over to inspect the carnage.

They were Locke's men alright. Dead as any men he'd ever seen. Some clustered in the front and some off behind the stables. The former group had clearly tried a frontal assault but were stopped by. . .

His eyes trailed up to the second floor window. A perfect sharpshooters nest. An accurate enough rifleman, or riflewoman, could have killed seven attackers. A remarkable feat, but not outside the realm of possibility.

Which left the three behind the stables. They'd no doubt intended to flank Andrea but were caught unaware themselves. They'd been dispatched without the use of a gun, he noticed. Death had probably occurred during unconsciousness as their bodies succumbed to the brutal cold. The bruises told him that whoever had done this was skilled. Not a blow wasted. He wished there were still tracks in the snow, to tell him more about the number of assailants and their strength.

Just based off of what he had seen though, one fact remained clear. Andrea Beaumont was no longer working alone.

"Well," Eduardo said to no one in particular. "Mr. Locke will certainly be interested to hear this."

His work here was almost done. However, there remained a loose end. Seven bodies in front of the cabin, three behind the stables. There was one unaccounted for. The trail of fresh footprints and bloodstained snow leading into the cabin left little doubt as to where he was.

Eduardo strolled inside pushing open the door with an ominous creak. He surveyed the kitchen and living room, both of which were empty. His eyes went to the stairs. Up there was the last survivor of a group of utterly incompetent fools. He could practically see him up there, pistol shakily trained on the stairs, waiting for Eduardo to appear.

Pathetic. Failure was something to be accepted, its consequences faced with dignity. "I know you are up there," he called, disappearing again into the kitchen.

No response.

"You failed me. Worse, you failed Mr. Locke," Eduardo went on as he rifled through the cabinets.

Silence.

"I suppose that if I come up there you will probably try to shoot me. Understandable, as I would like nothing more than to kill you with my bare hands. Bested by a woman. If it were me in your place, I'd have saved everyone else the trouble and taken my own life." Actually, between Andrea Beaumont and the meddlesome Princeton girl, he's lost a dozen men. Manpower that would time consuming to replace. What was it with the women in this _maldita ciudad_?

His attention returning to the matter at hand, Eduardo found what he was looking for. The liquor cabinet. Methodically, he selected three of the highest-proof bottles available. He opened them and poured out half of each bottle's contents. He picked up the used bar of dish soap on the sink and, after a brief inspection, broke off a piece for each bottle.

It was a trick he had picked up from an ex-revolutionary in prison. The bottles' stoppers were replaced with simple dishrags. And voila. Makeshift incendiaries.

"You deserve to die a coward's death," Eduardo said, barely loud enough for the survivor upstairs to hear. In the end, it didn't matter. He walked out the way he had come, bottles in tow. About twenty feet out, he stopped. And fished a simple matchbook out of his pocket.

The bottles he lined up on the ground. With one stroke, he lit the match and ran its burning head across the exposed tips of all three rags. Useful fuses, under the right conditions.

He hefted the first lit bottle and hurled it through the open front door. The results were spectacular. The bottle exploded at first contact, sending its extremely combustible contents flying in every direction. The concoction ignited in a fearsome fireball, and wherever the burning concoction touched, it ignited. Eduardo picked up the second bottle and hurled it through the far ground-level window. Not quite as explosive, but it did the job. Soon enough, the entire bottom level of the cabin was ablaze.

That was when the screaming started. He shook his head in disgust as the upper window was flung open, and a head emerged. "Please!" cried the man. "I'm sorry! Tell Locke I'm sorry!"

Eduardo could barely hear him over the sound of breaking glass and the roaring cackle of the growing fire. Underhanded, he tossed the last bottle in a high arc that landed it on top of the veranda that jutted out from beneath the second floor window. The entire structure burst into white hot flames, sending up a wall of fire that completely obscured the other man from view. More importantly, it cut off his only means of escape.

The screams continued although it wasn't long before they were drowned out by the sounds of the roaring fire. Eduardo, meanwhile, carted the bodies two by two to the front door, where he unceremoniously tossed them into a raging inferno. Even with his strength, it was a laborious task.

Finally finished, he walked back to the hitching post. Adriano's frightened whinnies were calmed with a few soothing strokes of his fur. "Shhh," whispered Eduardo as he unhitched the horse. "It is a beautiful thing, amigo. The fire, it cleanses impurities and failures. This is why men fear Locke. Why they fear me. After all, if we could do that to our own without a second thought. . .imagine what fate awaits our enemies."

The cabin crumbled, just so much burning debris. By that time, however, Eduardo Carrasco was riding swiftly back to the Harlequin Foundation. With a development this serious, certain aspects of the timetable would have to be . . .accelerated.

* * *

And the plot thickens even more.

As always, tell me what you think, good or bad. I love to hear from readers.

Also, I know there wasn't a lot of Bruce/Diana in this chap (more of that later, promise). Don't worry, at the end of the day this is not a Bruce/Andrea story but a Bruce/Diana one (though no promises as to how that little triangle will resolve itself).

Also, forgive any linguistic, economic, or historical butchering on my part. I try but I'm just a Midwestern college student *shrug*

More to come soon, including the return of our favorite card-wielding, gun-toting maniac!

-C


	7. The Women in This City

**The Home of Bruce Wayne**_  
_

_Mr. Miracle . . ._

With those words, another piece of the puzzle clicked into place. "You told Scott about what you had found?"

"Yes. At first I don't think he took me very seriously. But he agreed to look into the matter. A few days later, I received a cryptic telegram from him: 'Bigger than we thought. Must talk soon'. Or something to that effect."

"And then?" Bruce prodded.

"Well, in the meantime, I was poring over the map and the ledger for something, anything I could use. It was clear that they were importing a huge surplus of raw material but I needed more before I could go to the authorities. That, I found in the map."

Bruce nodded, reaching down for the document so he could follow her reference. Unfolding it was a bit difficult given the hasty manner in which It had been stowed, but after a few moments he held what was clearly a map of Gotham and some the larger adjacent townships. The map was littered with incomprehensible symbols and jottings that seemed to have neither rhyme nor reason. "What exactly did you find?"

She tipped down the top of the map so she could view it from her seat. "Well, this really only makes sense if you have an official map to compare it to. I used the library's map collection and just laid the two side by side." She pointed to the northwest corner of the map, where a structure was indicated. "That should not be there."

Bruce peered closer. "You don't say."

"According to every official document I could get my hands on, that piece of land is forest, nothing more."

Bruce tried to conjure up that part of town in his head. It was forest, at least to the best of his recollection. Virtually intraversible. Yet, according to this map, there was some type of. . .compound located there. A massive one at that.

"Approximately 3 acres," said Andrea, as if reading his mind. "It's difficult to even conceive of a facility that large. Yet, there it is."

"What, exactly, is it?"

Andrea took another sip of tea before answering. "My theory? It's another manufacturing plant. What's the sense in getting raw materials if you aren't going to put them to good use? They could never store it in their official facilities, but what if they simply divert the surplus and create their own, _unregistered _weapons."

Bruce tended to disregard speculation, but her theory certainly made a great deal of sense. "What did you do then?"

Her expression sobered. "I made a mistake. A terrible mistake."

* * *

**The Harlequin Foundation**

Urgent news or not, Carrasco knew better than to interrupt Locke during one of his meetings. What exactly transpired during these sessions was anyone's guess, but they were certainly important. He'd seen members of Parliament, government officials, even foreign dignitaries enter the Foundation's most hallowed room. Today's guest was an envoy of the German military's high command, a combination volatile enough to mandate absolute secrecy. In fact, the entire building had been ordered vacant for that very purpose.

He waited outside of the meeting room, calming his body and his nerves. Being the bearer of bad news to a man like Locke did not bode well for one's long-term health. The important thing was to focus on proactive measures. Neutralization and aggressive deployment of their assets. The constabulary in particular was ripe, in his opinion, for a change in regime.

The double doors opened and out stepped the envoy, a thickly bearded man dressed in a nondescript grey overcoat and hat. He noted Eduardo standing there, gave a curt nod, and immediately strode off down the hall.

"Come in," he heard his employer say from the other side of the door.

He did, taking the usual seat across the long table from Cameron Locke. He sat out of courtesy, though doing so was just a painful reminder that most furniture could not accommodate his sizeable frame.

Locke waited until the other man had finished adjusting to the seat before addressing him directly. "You have news."

Carrasco nodded. "Our men failed."

"For a second time," mused Locke. "Unacceptable. Where are they? An example must be made."

"They are dead sir."

"All of them?"

"Yes."

"Was it the Beaumont girl's doing?"

"For the most part. She was armed, and managed to kill or wound most of them. She also had help, however. I found some of the men with a different physical injuries. They were subdued face to face."

""Help?" Locke's jaw was noticeably twitching. "How much help?"

Eduardo lowered his eyes. "Possibly. . .possibly just one other individual.

Locke nodded leaning back and taking a few seconds to process this. "The women in this city. . ."

"My thoughts exactly sir."

"Alert our police contacts. Tell them to keep their eyes open. Declare her a missing person if need be. All they need to do is place her in protective custody and I trust you can finish the job."

"Of course. I've also taken the liberty of posting men at her father's house and at the local liveries and railways. If she tries to leave the city, she won't get very far."

"She had better not," Locke said softly. "I've graciously deigned to place the responsible for this fiasco on your shoulders. But my patience has its limits. I want that girl found and I want her dead."

"Understood." Carrasco decided to make a suggestion as well. "If I may, sir, perhaps we should consider completing our plans regarding the Gotham police force. Gordon is lamentably incorruptible, and replacing him with our top man inside would widen our options considerably."

Locke seemed to mull this over. "The circumstances of death should be beyond reproach. A tragic accident would appropriate."

Carrrasco nodded in acknowledgment. "Consider it done. I'll begin planning immediately-"

"No need ," said Locke. "I think this one would be best left to my associate."

The man had hundreds of 'associates' but it was still abundantly clear to whom he was referring. Of all of Locke's secrets, the chalk-skinned maniac in his employ was perhaps the strangest. Carrasco had only met him on one occasion, and the circumstances had been less than pleasant. A business partner of Locke's had tried to cheat the Foundation out of a small fortune in stocks. Carrasco, then a new employee of the Foundation, had taken it upon himself to pay the businessman a visit. Perhaps rough him up a bit.

But he'd arrived to find the Joker, as they were calling him, already there. He'd nailed the businessman to a wall. Hands, feet, and forearms. He'd slit the corners of his mouth all the way back to the ear, forming a grotesque smile. The wife was on the dining room table. He thought she was bound a first but then realized that the ropes and cloth were tourniquets to stop the bleeding. To keep her alive as she was carved up, while her husband begged and cried in protest.

Carrasco, horrified, had whirled on the demented freak, demanding an explanation. In response, the Joker had merely laughed. "Oh come on, you can't tell me you don't find it at least a little bit funny," the clown had replied. "Even he's having a good time. Just look at the smile on his face. Ear to ear!" And then he had lapsed into another peal of bloodcurdling laughter.

Carrasco had stormed out of the house and gone straight home, where he was sick for the rest of the day. He went to Locke's office the next day and once again demanded an explanation.

To which Locke had replied that employee or not, he was never to inquire about the Joker. Ever. The Joker was completely outside of the Foundation's regular chain of command, and his authority was second only to Locke himself.

That was the last time Carrasco had ever seen the Joker, though his handiwork was certainly hard to miss. Donald Luger, the recently deceased jailhouse informant was a testament to that. Locke seemed to approve of his barbaric methods. Enough so that for the Andrea Beaumont job he'd specifically requested that he emulate the Joker's style. Right down to the ceramic playing card.

"With all due respect, sir," Carrasco began tentatively, "I thought you said that you wanted it to look like an accident. Do you think your. . .associate can manage that level of restraint?"

Locke steepled his fingers thoughtfully. "Oh, I know he can."

* * *

"I was so naïve," Andrea said ruefully. "I went straight to the police. I was met by a captain named Fivel Morrison. And I told him everything. He didn't ask many questions, didn't even jot down details but I was sure that he would take the information and at least bring it to the Commissioner. I knew that if an official investigation was launched into the discrepancy, something was bound to surface."

"Fivel Morrison." Bruce said it aloud so that the name could properly cement itself in his memory. "Did you tell him where you were staying?"

"Yes, he wanted to know where I could be reached. So I left my sister's address. Two days passed and I heard nothing. The next day, I came back from an errand to find the front door open. _Pried_ open. I set down my bags and crept inside. I could hear voices, ever so faintly."

Bruce felt his throat clench a bit as she recounted what he knew would be the story of the triple murders. This couldn't be easy for her.

"I was careful not to make a sound, because the main voice I heard was male. Very deep, and foreign. Spanish I think. All I could think about was my sister. And then I heard her voice. By now, I was close enough to make out the conversation. Picture a kitchen, if you will, with a directly adjacent dining room. I was in the dining room, crouched behind one of the couches, watching the reflection in the cabinet's glass panels. I was frightened out of my mind."

"I can imagine."

"It was without a doubt the most horrible thing I've ever witnessed. You see, my sister and the other girls were tied to chairs. Their clothes were torn and they'd clearly been physically abused. The deep voice I'd heard belonged to the largest man I've ever seen. I never caught his name- the other men just called him sir. He had a knife and was threatening to use it on them if they didn't tell him where I was."

"Did they?"

She dabbed at the corner of her eye, struggling to keep the tears at bay. "No. They insisted that I was out of town. They were trying to protect me. But he didn't believe them. He said they had it on 'good authority' that I was staying with Helen. He slapped her, over and over until his palm was red with blood. But she wouldn't tell him anything. So then he took out a um, a playing card. And he slit Megan's throat with it. I don't know how but there was blood everywhere, and Samantha was screaming and my sister was crying-" The tears were falling freely now, despite her efforts to restrain. "And the Spaniard, he was screaming too. He was saying 'tell me where she is, you worthless bitch! Tell me where she is!' And my sister kicked him."

"Kicked him?"

"Yes, right in the privates. He doubled over and nearly fell down. And then he hit her, hard enough to knock her out. His henchmen were telling him to shut Samantha up because she wouldn't stop wailing so he grabbed her by the hair and yanked her head back and sliced into her neck until there was nothing but dead silence. Then he did the same to my sister and I was so horrified that I let out a sob. And he heard me. So I ran."

Bruce was still trying to process the enormity of the experience that this woman had just relayed. He'd seen his parents murdered in front of his eyes, and felt a deeply empathetic pain for Andrea Beaumont. He'd considered her rather inscrutable since meeting her, but hearing her forced to relive the awful horror she'd witnessed, he wondered if perhaps he hadn't been a bit too harsh on her. In her place, he would want to stay and strike back at the fiends too.

"I ran as fast as I could back to the front door, but then one of the men grabbed me, the one I recognized from Leaning Birch actually. I bit down on his hand hard enough to draw blood and then scrambled out the front door when he released me. My horse was still tied right there so I mounted her and rode away as fast as I could, never looking back. I've been in hiding ever since."

"Incredible," Bruce murmured. "You've singlehandedly solved my case for me. Who would have thought, a secret witness at the murders."

"Fat lot of good that does me. I can't prove any of it. I'd be laughed out of the newspaper office if I came to them with a story like that. Not that I'd live long enough to try again."

Bruce nodded thoughtfully. "Have you ever, by any chance, seen a green-haired, pale skinned man in clown makeup?"

"No, but that sounds familiar."

"That's because it's eerily reminiscent of the getup warn by Jackson Cale, the man who murdered my parents. It's also a perfect description of the man who attacked Mr. Miracle during his performance."

"Locke seems to have a peculiar affection for clowns," mused Andrea. The masks his men wear. And this business with the Joker card. If possible, I hate them even more now." She sighed. "I'm afraid I have no idea who he is or what his role is in all this. But the attack on Mr. Miracle is no coincidence. There's a connection here somewhere."

"And I intend to find it," Bruce said. He rose, straightening his collar as he did so. "There is at least one man on the police force that I know we can trust. Commissioner Gordon would never be complicit in something like this."

Andrea frowned. "No one is incorruptible, in my experience."

"Well Gordon is, in mine. I'm going to have a discreet word with him-"

"The hell you are-" Andrea practically shouted, rising to her own feet. "Did you listen to a word I just said? I went to the police and my sister died a hideous death right in front of my eyes. Cause and effect, Mr. Wayne."

"I trust him."

"You can't trust anyone. You might as well put a bullseye on your back. And mine as well!" Her voice broke on the last syllable, which was when Bruce realized that this reaction was about more than his character judgment.

"Andrea," he said softly, "your sister's death was not your fault."

"All their deaths were my fault."

"Is that what you really believe?"

"Yes!" She turned away, bracing herself on the arm of the couch while her back heaved with sobs. "I was so damned. . .stupid and I got them killed." She ran the back of her hand across her eyes, wiping away tears. "Helen was twice the woman I am. She was beautiful and clever and friendly. I couldn't even attend her memorial, you know. I was too frightened."

Bruce stepped forward and gently turned her around. He had little, make that zero experience comforting others. But even to him it was obvious that Andrea Beaumont needed a shoulder to cry on. He hugged her, cradling her head on his chest while she cried. He half expected her to slap him for it but instead she curled into his arms, her fist clenching the front of his shirt.

"Why am I still alive?" she asked once the tears had mostly subsided. "Why is she dead while I live?"

He stroked her hair, at a loss for what to say. "I suppose God only knows."

"Do you believe in God, Bruce?"

"Yes, I suppose so. Bit of a lapsed Catholic you could say."

"Well I don't. And if I did, I'd think him a right bastard."

Despite himself, Bruce laughed. And to his surprise, so did she. She clung to him and laughed until her voice was hoarse with exertion.

Finally, she pulled back. After a few deep breaths to regain her composure, she said, "Thank you."

"For what?" Bruce asked.

She just smiled. "If it's alright, I think I'll put on some more tea. Do you want to have a closer look at the documents from my father's office?"

"Um, yes, of course. Bruce collected the sheaf of paper and stacked them together. "I'll be in my study then."

"I'll join you in a bit."

Andrea watched Bruce disappear around the corner. He was completely and utterly different than what she had expected, and it was in the best possible way. She knew he had only hugged her out of courtesy, but something about the way his strong arms had circled around her made her want to stay there and never let go. Her arms tingled at the mere memory.

She'd just met the man. But given the tumultuous day they'd spent together, she felt like she'd known him for far longer.

* * *

**The Gotham Theater**

True to his word, Steven had returned Diana home with just enough time to make the necessary adjustments to her presentation.

She was ready.

The meeting was to be held in the Gotham Theater, and half-capacity was a very conservative estimate. She'd been sure that aggressive ads found their way into the Gotham Herald and other major newspapers. The downside, of course, was that this would by no means be a friendly audience. Her friends and many supporters would be there, but so would those who believed she was a rabble-rousing strumpet. This audience would make her work for their respect.

At least Bruce would be there, she thought. Why she cared so much about getting through to him in particular was a question she didn't care to examine too closely at the moment. But the fact remained that it wasn't the teeming masses she thought about when she took the podium.

It was Bruce.

As soon as she appeared on the main stage, a wave of whistles and claps rang out from the front sections. She smiled graciously, but it wasn't them she was trying to 'convert' so to speak. It was the sections behind them that had given reserved applause.

She cleared her throat, tucking a stray wisp of hair behind her ear as she began. "There is a certain member of Parliament, Lord Garrett Chisolm, whom I invited to this meeting. In person, might I add." She placed a hand over her eyes, as if searching every seat for the invitee. "Are you here, sir? If not I shall be most disappointed."

This garnered her chuckles from the audience. Chisolm was well-known to be anti-suffrage and anti-feminism in every sense of the word.

"Hmm," she said in mock surprise. "It appears not. I suppose this is no great shock, all things considered." She stepped from behind the podium, a useless piece of furniture in her opinion. What better way to wall off a speaker from her audience than by placing a physical impediment between the two.

"You see, when he was still a candidate, I and several of the other Daughters went to a local political meeting, right here in Gotham. We were the only women in attendance. When it came our turn to ask a question of the candidates, I put forth a rather simple one."

She paused for effect. "I asked the panel when they believed that our society would become sufficiently enlightened so as to grant women the vote."

A few scattered gasps that seemed to say: _I can't believe she said that to a member of Parliament_.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let me tell you that once I asked that simple question, the entire hall went completely silent. To give you a more accurate picture of the scene, let me also add that the meeting was in this very theater.

"Lord Chisolm was the first to respond to my question. He responded with the typical wit and eloquence of a politician." She lowered her voice as close as it would go to an angry baritone. "Young lady, how dare you! This is a serious forum! Who let her in here?"

More laughs. And to think she'd been this close to leaving the Chisolm impersonation out of her speech.

"'I'm well aware of the nature of this forum,' I told him, 'and as for seriousness, I believe you just finished entertaining all of us with your opinions on whether schoolchildren should be permitted to read Alice in Wonderland'".

She allowed for more audience laughter before continuing. "As I'm sure you can imagine, Lord Chisolm was none too pleased. "'You troublemaking feminists!' he thundered. "You should be at home, attending to the domestic affairs of husband and children like a proper woman. This suffrage nonsense may pollute other town halls but it will not pollute this one!'

"To which I suggested that he attend the next meeting of the Daughters of the Amazon for a 'proper' discussion forum." She clasped her hands together, the levity gone from her voice. "Across this country, women have been imprisoned, beaten, and subjected to all manner of abuse for daring to express the notion that they might be treated as equals in a just society. We British suffragists have developed quite the reputation. 'Militant', they call us, for daring to speak freely about our unequal treatment in the eyes of the law and society. For daring to protest the injustices that impact us most.

"Government without the consent of the governed is a sham and a mockery. Just ask the Americans." A risky bit of humor, but it did serve to ease the tension slightly. "In this day and age, for the first time, women are coming together to say 'We do not consent'. We do not consent to unequal wages, to divorce laws prejudiced against us, to the double standard of morality and the puritanical fervor with which this society demonizes women who choose not to follow the path preordained by men.

"We do not consent to be treated as second-class citizens. And today you will hear from women who have, against all odds, broken through into fields once thought to be the sole realm of men. And they are excelling. They are putting their colleagues to shame, in fact. More importantly, they are proving that medicine, science, and a host of other disciplines have ample room for women.

"I do not expect to convert all of you. This is no churchouse revival, for which I am immensely grateful if only because I lack the vocal strength. Please, listen to these women and at least consider the possibility that society's treatment of the 'fairer sex' is inherently unjust. Try to understand why we risk jail and public humiliation in this struggle." She paused. "Try to understand. That is all I ask."

* * *

"You know, all of your physical confrontations would proceed much easier if you simply used a gun," Andrea said.

They were in Bruce's study. He, jotting down notes about the ledger documents and she, exploring the vast collection of contraptions and devices with the wonder of a schoolboy at a museum.

She picked up one of the _shuriken_ resting on the weapons rack, holding the throwing star between thumb and forefinger. "This, for example. Honestly, other than make a nuisance of yourself what can a little bit of rubbish metal possibly-"

"I'd set it down," Bruce said without looking up. "The tips are coated with a mild paralytic agent. Temporary unconsciousness usually sets in after about ten seconds."

"Oh," said Andrea before keeling over.

Twenty minutes later she woke up in an undignified heap on the floor. Bruce arched an eyebrow at her as she struggled to her feet. "Hmm. It appears my _shuriken_ aren't all that ineffective."

"I still say the best way to stop an enemy is with a gun."

"It's also the best way to kill him. And that is where I draw the line." Bruce beckoned her over, setting down the pen he'd used to jot notes. "Back on topic then. I've established, I think, that these numerical codes on the second page are geographical coordinates. It was a bit confusing at first because these coordinates are longitudinally derived from the_ Rome_ meridian, despite the fact that Greenwich is universally accepted as the standard prime meridian. Odd, isn't it?"

"I. . .suppose," said Andrea. She had no idea what he was talking about.

"It would suggest that an Italian, still accustomed to the practice of _localizing_ the zero point of longitude, drafted these coordinates."

"Mr. Wayne. Bruce. I am not a cartographer."

"Yet if you were, you would use the commonly accepted Greenwich meridian," replied Bruce, seemingly oblivious to her confusion. He rolled out a large reference map and pinned the corners onto the table. Then he retrieved several colored pins and began sticking them into the approximate locations indicated by the coordinates."

"Bruce, I really am lost right now. What are you doing?"

He pointed to the first pin he set down. "Where is this?"

She placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned over to get a better look. "Why, that's Gotham."

"More importantly, I'd wager that that is our secret weapons facility.

"But there's at least seven other pins on this map-"

"More weapon facilities."

She looked at him like he'd grown another head. "That's preposterous. This one is right next to Berlin. And this one- it's in _Italy_. A British arms manufacturer would never supply weapons to the Germans or the Italians. It's treason!"

"A very lucrative bit of treason though."

"There's no way," she insisted. "There is absolutely no way that my father would willingly go along with something like this. You must be mistaken. Perhaps they aren't coordinates. Perhaps-"

"Perhaps your father didn't know," said Bruce.

"He had to have known. Those are his documents!"

"And he was a banker. He wouldn't necessarily have known what the facility in Gotham was, merely that he needed to find a way to finance it. The same goes for these other locations. I am not saying your father is a traitor, let me be quite clear on that point."

She sighed. "I know. I just. . .doesn't it seem like the more we dig, the more complicated this whole thing gets? I feel like all we have pieces of this massive puzzle and we can't make heads or tails out of the big picture. I mean, for heaven's sakes, local murders and a murderous clown. And this Locke character, who is apparently supplying weapons to half the damn continent. What for? Does he want to start a bloody war or something?"

Bruce's mouth quirked, the ghost of a smile. "The only simple mysteries are in dime store novels" he said. "I am a rationalist, however, and it is my firm conviction that every puzzle has an answer, every effect a cause. Mark my words, there is a larger scheme at play here. And that is what we must get to the bottom of."

"How?" Andrea asked.

"Well, first thing in the morning I'm going to try to find your friend Mr. Miracle. Clearly, he found a piece of the puzzle important enough to warrant his murder. We need to find out what that was."

Andrea seemed agreeable to this. "Very well. When do we depart?"

"We? Ms. Beaumont, you're not going anywhere. Locke and associates are no doubt combing the city for you as we speak."

She blinked in embarrassment. "Right. I'm sorry, I completely forgot for a moment there. I'm a wanted woman. Hard thing to come to terms with I suppose."

"Well you'll have to. I'm sorry."

Her expression saddened but she said nothing, leaning against another one of the workbenches. While Bruce worked on reorganizing the papers, she let her gaze travel over the books and pamphlets that littered the desktop. Her eyes came to rest one slip of paper in particular.

She picked it up, holding it to the light. "The Daughters of the Amazon," she read aloud.

Bruce bolted upright. "Idiot!" he swore.

"Excuse me?"

"Not you. Me." He checked his wristwatch. "Blast! Far too late by now."

"What are you talking about? Were you actually planning on attending this?" wondered Andrea, dangling the invitation like it was something she'd found in an outhouse."

"As a matter of fact I was."

"I would never have guessed feminist rallies as your typical weekend pursuit."

"They are not. I was invited by Diana Princeton."

"Ah. Of course." Bruce thought he saw disapproval cross her eyes at the mention of Diana's name, but he couldn't be sure. Curious, he pressed further. "You said you were once a member of the Daughters of the Amazon, didn't you?"

"Yes. Very briefly."

"Why did you part ways, if you don't mind my asking?"

She furnished a wan smile. "I suppose you could call it ideological differences."

"Oh?" Bruce was genuinely surprised.

"Let me clarify," added Andrea. "You see, there is the school of thought that female empowerment is best achieved by rallies and protests and political tools of the sort. I vehemently disagree. Agitating in the streets is good for a few headlines but it does absolutely nothing for the millions of everyday women who weren't raised in the lap of luxury. They don't care about the vote because quite frankly, a British election is rather akin to the Inquisitor asking if you prefer the rack or the wheel. Care for children, hospitals, these are the things that would truly benefit women in this society. Diana and her sycophants march for suffrage, and I think they'll get it too. Eventually. But so what? In my mind, their efforts are entirely misplaced."

"And I suppose you said as much?"

"I did. The result was. . .unpleasant. I left the Daughters of the Amazon and have not looked back since."

Which was not what Bruce was hoping to hear. Not at all. A reunion between the two women was inevitable. In their own ways, they were more deeply invested in the case than he. And he would need both of them if he hoped to penetrate the cloak of secrecy surrounding Cameron Locke and the Harlequin foundation.

"I know what you're thinking," Andrea cut into his thoughts. "And you're wrong. Diana Princeton might not be my favorite person in the world, but I would never let something so petty stand in the way of justice for my sister. Neither would she."

The statement hung between them for a moment. Then Bruce nodded. "Good."

* * *

Diana detested cameras and today was no exception. Yet, they were a necessity to be borne and so she did the best she could to maintain her smile in the face of an onslaught of flashbulbs and shutter clicks.

The rally had been a success. A marvelous success. Leslie Thompkins' earthly and humorous telling of her journey through medical college and the medical profession as a woman had the audience captivated. And the other keynote speakers were just as compelling. In all, Diana thought the perfect tone had been struck. Her opening remarks, preachy as they were, had raised awareness. And with that in mind, her audience had seen evidence of how much women had to offer in the intellectual pursuits.

This one she counted as a win. A much needed one at that.

She gave perfunctory closing remarks after a surprisingly tame question and answer period, sounding off to even more applause and more flashbulbs.

And then she was offstage, whisking past the groups of people cluttered about at the floor level. She wanted to catch Bruce before he left, to ask him what he thought of the rally. Perhaps they could even catch a late dinner together to discuss the case.

"Diana!" Steven Trevor called out from somewhere behind her. "Diana!"

She could hardly ignore the man. She paused her search, turning with a genial smile to greet him. "Hello Steven."

"Hello my dear. I just want you to know I brought myself and ten men, in addition to my employer."

"Your employer?"

He stepped aside, revealing the all-too-familiar figure behind him. "Diana, I want you to meet Cameron Locke.

Locke extended a hand. Long, bony fingers encased in a custom leather glove. "I do believe I've had the pleasure." His voice was. . .off. A low baritone interspersed with eerily high notes that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. His face had the same unnatural gloss that she remembered from their first meeting. Waxy and nonporous, as if he'd borrowed it from someone.

Diana reluctantly surrendered her own hand, upon which Locke bestowed a kiss that made her skin feel as if it were literally crawling. She retrieved her hand immediately. "Yes, I've met Mr. Locke on one other occasion."

"Oh? Splendid!" Steven seemed not to notice her palpable discomfort. "I for one thought you did marvelously." He turned an expectant gaze to Locke.

"Yes, it was a fine performance," Locke agreed , his eyes seeming to bore right through her skull. "It seems to be a popular message nowadays."

"I think that people respond well to articulated points and reasoned arguments," said Diana. "That's all."

Locke nodded. "Well don't worry my dear, the vote will come soon enough. I'm sure of it. In fact, I would like to offer a token of my support for your cause."

"Excuse me?" was all Diana could think to say.

"I think the sum of one thousand pounds should do it," Locke continued. "I shall have it delivered to your father the next time I see him."

Near speechless, she somehow managed to utter a thank you. Even Steven seemed surprised. His own ulterior motives for supporting the cause were quite simple: he wanted Diana. But what was Locke's game?

"Oh, and one more thing," Locke said before Diana could make her exit. "I hear you are a close acquaintance of Bruce Wayne."

"I've met the man," she said guardedly. She felt like the fly about to alight on a spider's web. "Why?"

"The Harlequin Foundation has an investment interest in Wayne Industries. I should like to meet with him sometime to discuss the. . . possibilities. Do you think you could pass that along for me?"

"I'll see what I can do," Diana allowed. "Now if you will excuse me, I really must be going."

As she disappeared into the crowd, Steven turned to his employer. "I'm beginning to suspect that she wasn't quite taken with you."

Locke drew his cloak around himself, the smile he wore failing to reach his eyes. "I can't imagine why."

* * *

One of the newer recruits, Cassandra, if memory served her correctly, had volunteered to manage the door. The poor girl, what with the overflow of attendees that Diana had witnessed. Of course, there was only one attendee in particular that she cared about at the moment.

"Cassie!" Diana had to struggle to be heard over the background din of a hundred different conversations. Nonetheless, the blonde girl heard her and waved in acknowledgment.

Diana made her way to the door where Cassandra was organizing the attendance rolls.

"You were amazing!" the younger girl exulted, setting down the papers to give Diana a warm hug.

"Thank you. And I'm sorry you had to deal with a crowd that size. It must have been awful-"

Cassandra dismissed the notion with a wave of her hand. "I rather enjoyed it actually." She looked furtively to her left and right before leaning in, a conspiratorial smile forming. "Between the two of us, I even met a boy. Connor. Very handsome, and a painter too. He came a bit late and we struck up a small conversation outside before he was seated. He wants to take me to see his gallery, as a matter of fact."

Diana smoothly steered the conversation back on track before the starstruck girl got carried away talking about her newfound romantic prospect. "That's lovely, darling. I'm quite happy for you. I had a question though."

"Oh? Ask away. I'm truly sorry, I do tend to blather sometimes. My father used to say all the Sandsmark women were like that. But, of course, he was one to-"

"Cassie. About the rolls. I need to know if Bruce Wayne attended tonight."

Her brow furrowed. "The detective? I don't believe so."

"Could he have gone past you undetected?"

"Well, possibly I suppose. But I think I would have recognized him. Especially at an event like this. Hardly the place you'd expect to find Bruce Wayne of all people."

Diana bit her lip pensively. "Indeed. Thank you, Cassie."

She was beginning to think that perhaps Bruce hadn't come after all. The feeling it gave her was odd. Disproportionate, all things considered. The sadness and disappointment were totally misplaced, she told herself. After all, he was probably just working hard on the case. The case that she had assigned him in the first place.

Perhaps she should pay him a visit. Her bodyguards would have none of it of course, but then they still hadn't managed to find her in the crowd. Eluding them would be child's play.

A visit. A meeting, rather, as a visit implied some personal undercurrent when in truth their relationship was strictly a matter of business. It wasn't as if the man himself had indicated anything to the contrary.

So it was decided. She would borrow one of the other Daughters' carriages and be on her way for a meeting with Bruce. He would be interested to know what she had learned from her father and from Steven. And she would try to ignore the fact that the very thought of seeing him left her giddy in the most unprofessional of ways.

* * *

"So if you don't mind my asking," Andrea began as they finished a dinner of roast lamb, "Where did you learn how to fight?"

Bruce chuckled but waited until he was finished chewing to answer. "What makes you think I know how to fight?"

She fixed him with a withering stare. "Don't be coy, Bruce. When we first met at the cabin you rendered me immobile in a matter of seconds. And then there are the men you subsequently beat insensate as we made our escape."

Bruce shrugged. "I traveled a great deal during my teenage years. I picked up a few things."

"Like what?"

"Well, _jujitsu_ for instance."

"_Jujitsu_?"

"I spent two years in Japan, training with an advanced practitioner of the art. Grappling, pinning, essentially using an opponent's force against them. I've found it can be devastatingly effective, and I stayed until I had earned the rank of highest student."

"_Jujitsu_," said Andrea again, as if working to suppress a giggle. "What an amusing word."

Bruce took a drink of milk. "You didn't find it so amusing when I used it on you."

"Touché'". Andrea seemed to contemplate something as she scooted back from the table and rose to her feet. She began walking toward the open space of the living room.

"Where are going?" Bruce asked, confused.

"I want you to teach me," Andrea explained over her shoulder.

"With five years of dusk-til-dawn training, perhaps," said Bruce. Maybe two if you took to it particularly well.

"I was thinking more along the lines of five minutes," Andrea shot back. "Just start with the hold that you used on me back at Leaning Birch."

"Ah." He set down his utensils. "Well that's rather simple actually."

* * *

By pure fortuitous coincidence, Diana happened to arrive at Bruce's home at the same time as Alfred. He was on foot, returning from one of the shops a mile south into town. She recognized the Burlap sacks they were fond of using slung over his shoulders.

"My my, I was beginning to wonder when I'd next see you," Alfred laughed as he waited for her to step down.

"Oh Alfred, you know I couldn't stay away for long. Is Bruce home, by the way?"

"I'm not entirely sure." Alfred took out his key. "Was he not at the rally?"

Diana shook her head. "Apparently not."

"Well you can ask him yourself." Alfred could feel something important niggling in the back of his mind, but he was tired and couldn't quite think of what it was. He turned the key and swung the door open, at which point he remembered (too late) exactly what he should have warned Diana about.

Diana stepped past Alfred through the open door and froze at the scene in front of her.

Bruce. And Andrea Beaumont. Locked in some sort of bizarre lover's embrace, his arms encircling her from behind. It was like a snapshot, cemented in her mind.

Both pairs of eyes shot to the door, and in that moment the entire room was as silent as a vacuum.

Alfred was the first to speak. "Um, how about I put on some tea."

* * *

**A/N**: Well, that was a whirlwind of writing but I reallly wanted to get this chapter up soon because it was original going to be part of Chapter 6. Hope you liked and that you will take the time to drop a review!

As for the action, that will start taking off with this next chapter, but first I've had to set the proper elements in their place. Ditto for the Bruce/Diana dynamic (In case you can't tell, second to Diana Andrea Beaumont was my favorite of Bruce's love interests in the Animated universe).

As always, I apologize for any any grammatical, linguistic, historical, or geographical oopsies.

-C


	8. An Identity Revealed

Bruce and Andrea sprang apart instantly, like the repellant ends of two magnets. Diana's face was typically unreadable, but he could only imagine what she must be thinking.

It wasn't as if he adhered to contemporary notions of propriety- far from it. Sexual repression as a cultural maxim was one of the most nonsensical ideas he'd ever encountered. Yet the fact remained that a simple judo demonstration, stripped of context, could easily be seen as a lurid seduction in progress.

Which, for some reason, was the last thing he wanted Diana to think.

Andrea, inconspicuously smoothing the front of her (Bruce's) shirt and trousers, was the first to speak. "Diana, it's wonderful to see you again."

"We missed you at the rally," Diana addressed Bruce, briskly ignoring the other woman.

"I apologize, I-"

"No apology needed," Diana cut him off. Her expression couldn't have been more bland, which Bruce was beginning to suspect was worse than if she'd been visibly upset. "I'm sure you were hard at work." The last bit was almost but not quite devoid of sarcasm.

"We were, actually," said Bruce, trying not to dignify the double entendre that immediately sprang to mind. "In fact, it's a good thing you're here. Andrea has a startling revelation about the murder of Helen Beaumont and the other Amazon members.

Diana turned to Andrea. "A revelation?" she asked skeptically.

"I witnessed their deaths," Andrea replied.

And just like that, her childish jealousies evaporated. "Oh." It seemed such a paltry acknowledgment of Andrea's loss, and Diana took a seat, trying to collect her thoughts. "I'm so sorry."

"Why don't we all sit down and compare notes over tea," Bruce suggested, stressing the last part so that Alfred could hear it from the other room. His offer to brew some tea had almost certainly been a ruse to escape an awkward situation, but that didn't mean that Bruce wouldn't call him on it.

Diana could have cared less about beverages, but all thoughts of the scene she had walked in on fled at the prospect of hearing a firsthand account of what had happened to her friends.

And Andrea Beaumont did not disappoint. She was a natural storyteller and even Bruce, who had to have heard it before, was rapt with attention.

She covered her growing suspicions, and the discovery of the files in her father's office. Her encounter with Locke. Her suspicions, voiced to Scott Freeman. And the murder. How she herself had narrowly escaped after seeing three women, including her sister, butchered.

Of all the surprises in the other woman's narrative (there were many), perhaps the one that struck Diana the hardest was Fivel Morrison's complicity in the scheme. The captain of the entire force was on Locke's payroll. At least that was the unavoidable conclusion from Andrea's account.

She was reminded of one of her favorite books, Alice in Wonderland. Her father, reading it to her as a child. "_Down, down, down. Would the fall __never__ come to an end!" _How deep, she wondered, did _this_ rabbit-hole go?

"It seems," Bruce began once Andrea had finished, "that we are among the few possessors of a very powerful secret."

"Some secret," Andrea remarked. "We've far more questions than answers now."

"Nonetheless, if Locke knew what we knew, he'd have us marked for death. We must take our next steps with great caution."

"What if we brought our evidence to the Commissioner?" Diana suggested. "After all, he's the only one who can do anything about Morrison."

"Assuming he isn't part of the conspiracy as well," Andrea wasted no time in saying.

Bruce shot her an annoyed look. They'd already discussed why he believed Gordon to be above reproach. Still, he didn't agree with Diana either. "If we bring this to Gordon, the first thing he will want to do is bring Andrea in. And we can't allow that. But without her, we have no compelling evidence. Just conjecture and hearsay. Besides, Morrison probably isn't the only crooked member of the force. Even Gordon wouldn't know who to trust, assuming he believed us in the first place."

Diana crossed her arms. "So what do _you_ think our next move should be, detective?"

Bruce and Andrea exchanged a glance, but it was Andrea who spoke. "You and Bruce will be going to see Scott and Barda Freeman. Provided that they are still in the city, I am fairly certain I know at which of their apartments they will be staying."

This course of action did make sense, when Diana thought about it. She wondered why Andrea had said 'You and Bruce'. As if she didn't intend to come herself. The question was answered in her mind almost as soon as it formed. Andrea couldn't go anywhere. She was the most wanted woman in Gotham. For once, Diana actually felt sorry for the other woman.

"You should leave first thing in the morning," Andrea was saying. "I'll write down the address for you. In their neighborhood, you would attract too much attention at this time of night."

Diana uncrossed her arms. Another day, another adventure. She would have to cancel a lunch meeting but that was done easily enough. "I'll do it," she said.

Bruce gave her a grim nod. "Good."

* * *

Diana was jealous. And she hated it.

Sitting next to Bruce as they made their way to Scott Freeman's last known address, she futilely tried to conjure up all the eligible men she knew of in Gotham. It wasn't as if there were any great shortage of them after all. Especially with the naval officers having returned, it seemed as if there were more men around than the city knew what to do with. There was Luke Shaw, a childhood friend who now worked as the editor-in-chief for the Gotham Herald. There was Tommy Elliot, the pioneering surgeon who worked at the local hospital. She thought harder and easily came up with half a dozen more single (and attractive) men that a more sensible woman than she might be pursuing (or allowing to pursue her).

More sensible indeed. Her own sanity should be called into question, sitting there mooning over Bruce Wayne of all people. Not that she displayed this in any way, but there no was no denying the way her pulse quickened whenever her eyes met his. Or, conversely, the blood she could hear rushing in her ears whenever she saw him with Andrea.

Her thoughts turned to the other woman. The same old Andrea that she remembered from her teenage years. And yet, different at the same time. The last of the Beaumont girls had matured since Diana had last encountered her, perhaps even grown more cynical. There was a hardness in her eyes that seemed jarring on her otherwise youthful beauty. Not that Diana could blame her. She couldn't even imagine the pain of seeing those closest to her murdered in cold blood. It had been hard enough living with such a tragedy after the fact.

She wondered if the Scott Freeman lead would end up a wild goose chase. She hoped not, if only because that was the only good avenue of investigation they had right now. The thought of her friends' killers never being brought to justice angered her in a way that few things could. If there was even the slightest chance that this visit would help, then it was worth it.

A more chilling thought occurred to her too. What if Locke and his Harlequin goons had already beaten them to Scott. What if he'd finished the job he started during the magic show. Worse, what if they encountered Locke's men?

Reflexively, she reached down to her laced boot and the stiletto knife she'd taken to concealing there. Its unmistakable feel through the leather was reassuring, and the five-inch steel blade was designed to slip right between the ribs, perforating any number of vital organs. She'd thankfully never had to use it, but with the events of the past weeks she figured the risk of such a situation was greater than ever.

Bruce, as far as she could tell, was at some perfect intermediate between calm and alertness. His posture was still, his features devoid of expression. But she noted the way his eyes darted around the road, cataloguing everything in sight and filing it away. He hummed, if that was the right word, with energy that belied his passive appearance.

"We're here," he said. And Diana realized that her ruminations had occupied the entire trip. They were in downtown Gotham, more specifically the Hershing district which was rapidly losing its lower class reputation. With the area's industrial growth and an ever-increasing population, the mansion flats of Hershing were beginning to attract a higher and higher prestige of tenant. The flats certainly looked better than when Diana had last seen them, and it occurred to her that they had probably all been renovated to attract a wider leaseholding base.

The Freemans lived at the top on the 8th floor, 814A according to Andrea's information. Diana stepped outside the cab and frowned up at the towering mansion flat. "Who would ever want to live so high above the ground?" she remarked.

Bruce exited from the other side, closing and locking the doors. While he secured the carriage, he said, "The desire to reach novel heights, both literally and figuratively is a rather ubiquitous human trait." He added, "Though personally, I suspect that the Freeman's simply enjoyed the view. At any rate, shall we?"

They entered the building, where a doorman waited on a stool in the lobby. He looked up from his book, surprised at the unfamiliar arrivals. Perhaps, Diana thought, he was unaccustomed to the tenants having guests. He adjusted his spectacles, the better to peer at the two curious newcomers. "May I help you?"

Bruce Wayne and Diana Princeton, here to see Mr. and Mrs. Scott Freeman," said Bruce.

"Were they expecting you?" the doorman inquired.

"No."

Diana winced at Bruce's curt reply. The last thing they needed was to be turned away before even getting the chance to talk with Scott and Barda. She flashed a wide smile and said in a gentler voice, "It is a matter of great urgency, I'm afraid. We weren't able to arrange the visit beforehand. Could we at least knock on the door, and see if they're home."

This seemed to put the doorman at ease. "The residents here generally prefer not to have unannounced visitors," he said. "However, your reputation precedes you. I'll allow it."

"Thank you," Bruce began.

"I was not referring to you, sir," said the doorman indignantly. He turned back to Diana. "Madam, by all means."

"Why thank you." Diana shot a glance at Bruce, whose eye was twitching in what she supposed was embarrassment. She shot him a smug look. "This way, if I'm not mistaken."

As the building had no lifts, they were forced to take all eight flights of stairs on the way up. Diana considered herself a well-conditioned athlete but Bruce, perhaps not having taken well to her gloating earlier, seemed to determine to ascend the stairs as quickly as possible without running. It was a bit of a challenge just keeping up, and by the time they reached the top floor her breathing had grown noticeably heavier.

"Mature of you," she remarked, straightening out the folds of her dress.

"Might I recommend a regular calisthenics routine?"

"Might I recommend my foot-"

Diana was interrupted by the door to the Freemans' flat suddenly swinging open. Both found themselves face-to-face and speechless with Barda Freeman. She towered over them like a statuesque goddess, an unreadable expression on her face.

Her gaze lingered on Bruce. "I recognize you. From the performance."

"Detective Bruce Wayne," he said crisply.

"I remember. My husband owes you his life."

Bruce looked past her into the sparsely furnished living room. Too sparsely furnished. There were luggage bags resting against the far walls.

Barda stepped to the side. "Please, come in."

The two obliged, Bruce closing the door behind them. Scott was just coming in from the bedroom, his sleeves rolled up and his hair slightly disheveled. He looked a lot different from the Mr. Miracle that had wowed so many audiences, though Bruce recognized the light, springy step of a fellow athlete. Scott's looks were deceptively mundane.

"I'm sorry we can't accommodate you with much," Scott began apologetically.

"You're leaving," Bruce observed. "For good, I assume."

"You would too in our situation." Barda murmured from behind her husband, her arms crossed in front of her chest.

Scott didn't seem to mind the assertion. "You're here," he said, "which means you know some. You know why that maniac tried to kill me." He chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. "Andrea sent you here."

Bruce nodded.

"I'm tempted to ask why she didn't come herself, but that would be a rather inane query under the circumstances. I shall, however express my hope that wherever she is, she is safe."

"Absolutely safe."

"Good. Now, as I was saying, you know some. But you don't know enough. You don't realize that Locke isn't a mystery. He's not a case that can be solved. More like a force of nature, at least here. You're looking for evidence, I presume to bring him down. And I don't blame you. The man is as monstrous as they come. Truly horrific, the things he's gotten away with." He clasped his hands together earnestly. "Locke is a different breed of criminal though. He's subverted the very infrastructure of the city. The courthouse, the police, all of it is under Locke's thumb. This isn't a battle that even an intellect like yours can win."

Diana, having been silent for most of the conversation, stepped forward. "If you don't mind our asking, what was it that you discovered about Locke's operations? What was it you found out that provoked an assassination attempt from one of his henchmen in broad daylight?"

Scott didn't seem to mind answering the question. "There is a large compound, located-"

"We know about the compound," Bruce cut in. "Weapons, right?"

Rather than annoyance at the interruption, Scott registered genuine surprise. "I'm impressed. Andrea wasn't quite sure what was going on with that compound when she came to me. But we had our suspicions and I decided that it couldn't hurt to have a small look about the premises. So, I broke in."

* * *

My apologies for the intrusion," Locke addressed the two men seated before him in his office. The first man repeated his words in German to the second, whose face betrayed little behind a fierce mustache and beard. He said something in reply, which the translator dutifully relayed.

"General Richter wishes to know if there is any trouble with the upcoming shipment."

Locke waved off the notion dismissively. "Of course not. Everything is proceeding according to plan."

The Prussian general said something else, and though Locke spoke little German, he caught the name that had plagued him so. "What of Andrea Beaumont?" The translator said. "The General wishes to know if she has been apprehended."

"She will be, soon," Locke promised, waiting for that to be conveyed before continuing. "And even still, she is no threat to the operation."

The General's eyes narrowed. What he said to the translator was so low that Locke could barely make out the syllables.

"Loose ends are unwise," said the translator. "The General wishes for you to take care of them before we return to business."

_Unwise_, thought Locke. Time was of the essence after all. But General Richter was not a man known for his willingness to negotiate. He was on British soil illegally, his very presence and activities tantamount to an act of war, should they be discovered. Under the circumstances, Locke supposed that a bit of extra caution on the General's part was understandable.

"Very well then," said Locke. "We shall recess until tonight."

This seemed acceptable to the General, and soon both he and his translator had made their departure.

Locke drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the Oak table. A constable, one of Fivel Morrison's direct underlings, had just delivered the news that the Freemans were spotted returning to one of their local homes. A flat, just two or three odd miles west of the Foundation.

The young lieutenant had offered to have his own men bring the two in. Any reason could be trumped up. Protective custody or even detention of a hostile witness. He was wholly onboard, eager to prove himself and at least marginally competent. If he proved useful in the future, he would remain. If not, Locke would have him replaced. He would probably have Morrison dispose of the lieutenant himself.

No, he told the lieutenant, no help was needed. His own men would handle things from here. The Joker was not available; he was being saved for a different task altogether But Carrasco was.

* * *

Two hours later Carrasco and two of his best enforcers were en route to the Freemans' flat. They were giants among mortals. Huge, imposing men, over a half-ton of muscle between the three (though Carrasco undoubtedly had the lion's share). They were each armed with knives and pistols. No hammers or nails or masks or playing cards. This would be quick and clean and brutal, and with that one more loose end would be tied up.

* * *

Scott looked back and forth between the two of them, clearly expecting something other than the bland surprise etched on their faces. "A bit uncharacteristic, to be sure. My specialty is breaking out of tight spots, not into them. However, it's the same kind of thinking that enables one to do either. It wasn't long before I found a weak spot in the system- the food supply delivery for the guards."

"They have food delivered?" Diana repeated for clarification.

"It's a necessity. Make no mistake, this is a large compound with dozens of full-time staff and guards. They live in housing units inside its walls. Which means they rely on supplies from the outside. Food, clothing, medicine, that sort of thing. There is a private, underground railway that leads directly to the heart of the compound. I stole aboard one of the cars and voila, instant access."

He paused at the slightly audible _hmmph_ this elicited from Barda, giving his wife an apologetic smile and then turning to Bruce and Diana by way of explanation. "Barda was not particularly fond of my plan, especially since it meant going in alone." He sighed. "I suppose that in the end you were right about the dangers, my dear. Still, perhaps what I learned can be valuable to our new friends."

Bruce perked up at this. Now they were getting to the heart of the matter. "And what did you learn?" he pressed.

"Well, as you may be aware, the compound exists for the sole purpose of illicitly manufacturing weapons. Some of these are of the type familiar to you. Pistols, rifles, bayonets and the like. I discovered these in one of the four main warehouses at the center of the compound. The other three were much more heavily guarded, but I was able to secure a spare guard uniform and wander about the perimeter unmolested. One particularly lax sentry and a bit of athletic prowess was all I needed to scale the fence closing off the first of these. Inside, I found these. . .machines. Vehicles- not horsedrawn either, mind you, but fully self-powered. Outfitted with armor plating and cannon turrets. The one being tested at the time was massive and truly awe-inspiring. It belched smoke and the din of its clanking treads and mechanized bowels was overwhelming. Stealth was hardly even a problem. I could have worn five cowbells about my neck and still escaped detection."

Diana look was quizzical as she struggled to make sense of this. "So it was like a train? A train equipped for battle, perhaps?"

"Oh, more revolutionary than that, I'm afraid. This vehicle needed no tracks. It was able to traverse over solid ground, even over resolute obstacles." He strained for more words. "It was extraordinary, I tell you. In battlefield terms, one of these could wreak havoc on an entire cavalry regiment. The staff members charged with conducting the tests I witnessed threw barrage after barrage of gunfire and cannon artillery at that behemoth. They might as well have been throwing rocks at an elephant." He shook his head ruefully. "I myself am a veteran of the damned Boer War. What I saw that night, in my opinion, renders the tactics of modern warfare obsolete. I don't know what Locke is planning on doing with those machines but the fact that they are being constructed without the knowledge of the government is worrisome in its own right."

Bruce certainly agreed with him there. Scott did not seem like a man prone to exaggeration or hyperbole, and if a weapon like what he had just described did exist, it followed that Locke was now orders of magnitude more dangerous than even he had suspected.

* * *

"This is the correct street," said Carrasco, pulling the appropriate address from memory.

"Which building?" asked Taggert, the accomplice to his right. The large Scotsman was unfamiliar with most of Gotham, having come to England only a few short months ago. However, what he lacked in local knowledge was more than compensated for by a quick mind and an ability to follow orders without question.

Carrasco pointed to the large brownstone building halfway down the block. "Top floor," he said curtly.

Nelson, the man to his left whistled as they made their way closer. "Looks a lot better than I remember," he said jovially. "Someone's been a-renovating I imagine."

Carrasco resisted the urge to tell him to shut up, not the least because the other man's voice was an irritating, garbled mixture of grunts and whistles. The consequences of losing most of one's teeth in one barfight after another, he imagined.

"Keep alert" he reminded his men as they neared the mansion flat. "Word is the wife is supposed to be a real bruiser."

He got laughter in response. In stereo. "The wife?" chuckled the Scotsman. "The day I have to be worried about some lass getting rough with me, please, do me a bullet through the skull."

Carrasco said nothing.

* * *

"So tell us," Diana was saying, "How did you escape?"

"Oh, the same way I entered. No one was ever the wiser."

Diana cocked her head at him. "Clearly someone was, or else Locke's assassin wouldn't have almost killed you."

"that's because he made the same mistake Andrea did," Bruce interjected , the puzzle pieces fitting into place. "He went to the police."

Scott gave a sad smile. "It's true. My first instinct was to go straightaway to the authorities."

"And you talked with Fivel Morrison," Diana finished, disgust in her voice.

"Yes. I was so relieved at first. He assured me that he would look into the matter. The bastard. I've been replaying the conversation over and over and I still can't get past how he was able lie so effortlessly to my face. A dangerous man, that Morrison. And I don't think he's the only cop on Locke's payroll either."

"A question," Bruce spoke up. "If you were going to break into the compound again, how would you do it?"

Scott looked surprised by the question. "Well I certainly wouldn't sneak in using the supply train again. Morrison's no doubt shared with them my technique and you can be sure that those supply cars are being inspected a great deal more thoroughly now. To be honest, the compound is practically impregnable otherwise. It's approachable from three sides only, first of all. The 'back', if you will, is sheer cliff wall. The rest is encircled by steel fences. Sixteen feet high with virtually frictionless domed tops. Literally impossible to climb, or gain any sort of traction or foothold whatsoever. The exterior is also littered with traps. Anyone approaching from off the designated, guarded paths could very well get their leg crushed in two by a bear trap. I heard two of the guards joking the other day about how a wandering vagrant had stumbled through the forest and onto the compound property, only to get caught in one. They said let him bleed out, howling in agony and confusion. So, in short, I would say that the chances of breaking back into that place are approximately nonexistent."

Bruce frowned. "We'll see. At any rate, thank you for-"

Barda interrupted. "We have company." She was at the window, looking down onto the street below. Her attractive features were etched with worry.

"Company?" Scott repeated, going to join his wife at the window.

"Those three men," she reported without taking her eyes off the street. "I happened to catch sight of them by pure accident as I was looking out the window."

"They're massive," Scott breathed.

Bruce and Diana immediately exchanged glances, both thinking of the mountain of a man that Andrea had described killing her sister. "Careful," Bruce said. "They might be Locke's men."

"My thoughts exactly," Barda murmured. "They are certainly not tenants."

Diana turned to husband and wife. "Both of you need to leave immediately."

"What about you and Bruce?" Scott said, even as he began throwing assorted items into the assorted travel bags lying around.

"They have no reason to hurt us," Diana assured him with more bravado than she felt.

Scott's expression was unreadable. "Let us hope not." His gaze shifted to Bruce. "One more thing. Even if you were able to get into the compound, the other silos would inaccessible without a master key. These are four-inch thick, steel-reinforced doors, secured with sequentially magnetized bolt locks. I had my own lockpicking kit and it was virtually useless. Locke carries a magnetized key that is the only way short of explosives or a diamond-tipped drill that I can think of to gain access. Assuming that some modicum of stealth would be desirable, your only option would be to get that key." He paused. "Assuming, of course, that you could gain entry in the first place."

"I'll find a way," Bruce said, unconcerned. "This key, however, might be a bit of a challenge. I assume Locke keeps it very secure, or at least very close to his person. If he discovered it missing, his first thought would logically be to close down operations at the compound and at the very least implement some secondary security measures."

"Locke is certainly no fool," Barda said solemnly. "If you plan to infiltrate that forest compound of his, you'll need a damned good plan."

* * *

"Taggert, you go around the back," Carrasco instructed as they came to the front door. "I don't want them slipping out from the rear."

Taggert gave a cheeky mock salute, but like a good soldier set off toward the backside of the building right away.

Which left Carrasco and Nelson. Carrasco turned the doorknob and flung it open. The doorman, looking up from his newspaper seemed stunned to see two unfamiliar men. He gulped nervously, resembling nothing so much as a fish out of water.

Carrasco had no time to waste. "There are two residents who live in the uppermost floor of this building. Their names are Scott and Barda Freeman. I need to know if they are here right now."

"Umm. . ." the doorman shrunk away behind the desk, his eyes nervously flitting between the two. "Are you acquaintances of the Freemans'?"

"Yes." Carrasco stepped right up to the desk. He was so tall in contrast that he looked as if he could simply step over it at any moment. "Now again, are they at home?"

"I-I believe so," stammered the smaller man.

Carrasco nodded to Nelson, then turned back to the doorman. "I'll be needing your master keyring."

The doorman paled. "I-I can't just give you-"

Carrasco reached out and cupped the man's face in his hands. It was an odd sight, like a bizarre caricature of a lover's caress.

But this was no caress. Carrasco laced his fingers together behind the man's head, and squeezed. Once the other man realized what was happening, he started to struggle. It was useless. His head might as well have been caught in a vice.

Carrasco squeezed harder, until he could hear the man's facial bones clicking in protest. Then he lightened his grip just a fraction. Just enough to prevent the doorman from blacking out in pain. "The keys, if you will."

He couldn't get them out fast enough two seconds later, they had been fished out of a back pocket and slammed down onto the front desk.

Carrasco released him, letting the red-faced man slump into a sniveling heap behind the counter. He held up the key ring and found the one that indicated the eighth floor apartments. "Let's go, Nelson."

* * *

They underestimated how much time they had, which became perfectly clear when the sound of heavy footsteps down the hall reached them.

"Quick!" Bruce said urgently, "into the bedroom!" He gestured to both Scott and Barda, who were in the midst of gathering the last of their things. His authoritative tone brooked no dissent, and the order came just in time.

No sooner had Scott and Barda disappeared into the bedroom than Bruce and Diana heard the unmistakable sound of a key being turned in the lock.

Diana's heart leapt into her throat as she waited for the door to open. She'd never met this Carrasco but by description he was as unpleasant as they came. Not for the first time, she was keenly aware of the stiletto in her boot. Should it come down to that, she knew she would not hesitate to use it.

The door swung open, and in stepped two men, the first of whom was taller even than Barda, with cruelly handsome features, a Mediterranean complexion, and coal-black eyes and hair. His associate ducked through the portal just a moment later, the visual prototype of a ne'er-do-well with his crooked, oft-broken nose, pitted skin, and shifty gaze. The floor literally creaked under the two as they stepped inside.

Carrasco did not look pleased to see them. She watched the expressions on his face. Confusion, then, shifting expectations which gave way to suspicion. "What are you doing here?" he asked, the accented baritone cutting through the silence like a serrated edge.

"Visiting a recent acquaintance, actually," Bruce replied smoothly. There was no guile, but rather the hint of indignation in his voice. "And yourselves? Are you friends of the Freemans'?"

Carrasco ignored the question. "Where are the man and woman who live here?"

"Gone, unfortunately," Diana supplied. "We were actually hoping-"

"'We?'" repeated Carrasco, impatience rising in his tone. "What is 'we'? What are _you_ doing here for that matter, Diana Princeton?" His eyes kept darting back and forth between Bruce and Diana as if trying to make sense of the two of them together, here.

"She is with me," Bruce interjected before Diana had the chance to answer. If you are looking for Scott and Barda Freeman, then I'm afraid you'll have to try back at a different time. They are not here."

He sounded so convincing that Diana almost forgot he was lying through his teeth. The Freemans were in fact at home, no doubt hiding in the bedroom just scant yards away. Carrasco would kill them, and probably Bruce and Diana as well, if he found them. That much she knew.

Carrasco's jaw twitched. "If they are not here, then how did you gain entrance to the apartment?"

"We have a key," Diana piped up. She saw Bruce's face fall in her peripheral vision, and she knew instantly that she had miscalculated.

"A key?" Carrasco took a step toward her. "Show me."

She opened her moth but no words would come out. There was, of course, no key.

Carrasco's eyes darkened and in one swift move that belied his considerable size, he moved Diana out of his way and strode through the space she had just occupied. Diana almost didn't have time to register his hand, the size of a bear's paw, moving her to the side as if she weighed nothing.

"Don't!" Diana shouted, but it was too late. Carrasco turned the doorknob.

It didn't budge. Locked. So he turned harder. With a metallic pop, the mechanism tore away from the door completely, showering the floor with wood splinters. With nothing anchoring it to the jamb, the door swung open.

To reveal an empty bedroom. Carrasco flung open the closet shutters with no luck. He picked up the bed and flipped it upside down, sending reverberations throughout the entire flat. Nothing. He tipped over the dressers. Nothing. He yanked the window up and stuck his head out into the cold.

Nothing. Nothing but an eight-story drop to an empty alley.

"_Mierda_!" Carrasco slammed his fist into the wall, completely pulverizing the cheap wood and thermal insulation underneath. He came back out of the bedroom like a whirlwind, where Diana, Bruce, and Nelson were waiting.

"So they're not in there I take it," Nelson said. Carrasco wanted to shoot him on the spot.

_Calmate, Manuel,_ he thought, taking a deep breath to collect his thoughts and ease his temper. The Freemans had clearly escaped, and to some level Bruce Wayne and Diana Princeton were complicit. How much they knew was anyone's guess, though with a good hour alone with them he didn't think it would remain a mystery for long.

But no, that wasn't really an option. Perhaps if it was just the detective, but the Princeton girl was too high profile. Locke wanted to lose attention, not draw more of it.

He caught Nelson's eye. "We're leaving."

"But what about them?" Nelson was clearly hoping for at least some action on this outing. His hand was not-inconspicuously grasping the pistol grip of his revolver under his coat. Carrasco tersely shook his head.

"We're _leaving_," he repeated.

"Would you like us to leave a message for them?" Diana asked as the two men prepared to leave. "In case they come back soon?"

Carrasco's jaw tensed but he didn't rise to the bait. Oh she definitely knew more than she was letting on. That was for bloody well sure. He made a mental note to speak with his employer about both Princeton and the detective. That they were now somehow affiliated with Scott Freeman was troubling, to say the least. He hoped that Locke would give him the go-ahead to take care of the two permanently. Or that he would let that psychopath Joker loose on them. He would enjoy watching the smug bitch beg and scream for her life.

It was only a matter of time.

"My God," Diana breathed, letting out a breath she'd been holding for the past five minutes. It felt like her entire body was flooding with relief. She shouldn't have been surprised of course. Scott Freeman had only done what he was born to do.

He had escaped.

On impulse, she reached for Bruce and hugged him tightly, pulling back at last with a slightly embarrassed smile. "That was superb!" she exulted. "I can't for the life of me imagine how they did it. We're eight floors up in the bloody air after all! I mean, I thought for sure we would have to take on those two. And Carrasco, he's even bigger than-"

"What the hell were you thinking?"

Diana took longer than usual to register the words. She opened and closed her mouth, unsure of how to respond. Bruce, she was beginning to notice, did not share her exuberation. If anything, he seemed. . ._cross_ with her.

She stepped back, regarding him warily. "What do you mean?"

"This 'key' business for starters," Bruce said, not a hint of mirth in his expression. "What was that?"

"I was thinking on my feet."

"No, you were blurting out the first thing that came to mind. And it was a poor lie, to boot. He proved your deceit in a matter of seconds, as well as the fact that by extension, you and I are allied with the Freemans. Now we're both an elevated priority for Locke, and that's certainly not going to make investigating him any easier."

"Well I'm sorry," Diana snapped, unappreciative of his tone. "I was trying to help. What would you have told him?"

"I'd have told him something plausible that couldn't easily be disproven. And I was going to before you butted in. Which is not to mention that last parting shot you so cleverly threw at him. I mean, for Christ's sake Diana! This man murdered three women in cold blood. Why on earth would you unnecessarily provoke him?"

"You're mad because I _insulted_ him?" Diana's voice rose in anger with each word.

"No, my irritation derives from the fact that you are behaving more like a liability than an asset. You treat these people cavalierly, as if they play by the same civilized rules that you do. But they don't. They have no rules."

"You know, Bruce, I already have one father and I find that to be more than sufficient, thank you very much. And as for being a, what did you call me, a 'liability'? Feel free to stuff that up your arse. _I_ contracted _your_ services, if memory serves me. I am not your commodity or errand girl. I thought I was your partner in this, but I've been wrong about worse things."

"Well, we agree on something," Bruce said coldly.

* * *

Back at the manor, Andrea had found a way of busying herself that didn't involve running roughshod through Bruce's sensitive laboratory equipment or field testing the assorted mechanical devices in the study.

To her delight, she'd discovered an upright piano in the heretofore unexplored music room. It was a small, afterthought of a space directly adjacent to the study but whose entrance was almost obscured by a rather ugly (in her opinion) coat rack.

Sliding the aesthetically offensive item out of the way, Andrea had walked into the music room and instantly fell in love with the upright piano. She ran a finger down the side of the outer rim casing, admiring the feel of the hardwood maple. It wasn't as majestic a piece as the grand piano at her father's house, but clearly it was in fine shape.

Above the piano was a portrait of a woman. Beautiful, with high cheekbones, blue eyes, and long, auburn hair pulled up into an elegant chignon. It was an extraordinary painting, and the commission must have cost a great deal, she thought.

It was the same woman, she quickly realized, that was pictured at the top of the stairs in the manor. Martha Wayne, Bruce's mother. Looking more closely at the image, she could see the marks of resemblance, particularly in the eyes.

The loss of a mother, she reflected as she sat down, was something that united the three of them. Her own mother had died of natural causes and Bruce's had been killed brutally at the hands of a madman. Diana's mother was a bit more of a mystery to her. Even during her membership in the Daughters of the Amazon, she'd never thought to inquire about the matter.

Shaking her head from the melancholy that such thoughts tended to evoke, she sat down on the piano bench and flipped up the cover, sending a fresh wave of dust into the air. Well-maintained though it was, the piano clearly hadn't been played in quite some time.

Hesitantly she began to play from memory, her following the path of memory, through a basic set of chord progressions. The sound was beautiful. Rich and vibrant. Her keystrokes gained more confidence as she continued to play and soon she was lost in the music.

* * *

Bruce was getting the unsettling sensation of déjà vu. Riding back with a woman whose ire he had managed to incur. . .that one was certainly familiar. That it was a fetching brunette instead of a fetching blonde did little to alleviate the fact that he seemed to have an uncanny knack for irritating the females around him.

It didn't help that the more he thought about it, the more he was beginning to think he'd overreacted. Diana wasn't some sort of trained espionage agent (technically, neither was he), and she had only been trying to help. Recalling the exact words he had used, especially with the clarity of hindsight, made it clear that he'd been rather condescending to boot.

And well, to top it all off, he _liked_ her. He cared what she thought and he cared what she thought about him.

"I apologize," he said simply, interrupting more than twenty minutes of stony silence. He spared his gaze from the road for a brief second to look at her. "My earlier words were. . .uncalled for."

"It's not your words," Diana replied after a pregnant pause. "It's the thought behind them."

Bruce frowned, puzzled. "You'll have to elaborate."

"What I mean is that you still don't seem to view me as an equal. As a partner in this. Asset, liability. . .I don't want to be either of those. You were so quick to jump on my little faux pas back there, as if you were just looking for a sign that I couldn't be trusted." There was genuine hurt in her voice, though she covered it well. "My own words were uncalled for, as you put it."

"You do have a rather colorful vocabulary," Bruce remarked.

Diana allowed herself a short laugh. "We're full of surprises, we Princetons."

Bruce once again turned from the road to give her a look that was almost. . .tender. Just as quickly, it had disappeared, leaving her to wonder whether she had imagined it altogether.

"For the record," he said, "I do consider you a partner in this. Even setting aside the fact that you probably saved my life, you've more than proved your dedication to this case. You and Andrea both."

Diana's pettier side could have done without the last part of that sentence, but it still warmed her inside. Bruce Wayne was by no means an easy man to work with, but he was fair, and he respected her enough to apologize when he'd stepped out of line.

She felt a sudden pressure on her hand, and had to physically look down before she realized what it was. Bruce had taken her hand in his. He squeezed, softly. "We'll get better at this as we go along," he said before releasing her hand.

She instantly missed the warmth, the pleasure of even that scant amount of physical contact.

But it was a start.

* * *

Commissioner Gordon missed simply being tired. Tired was nothing. It was paradise, compared to the exhaustion that crept at the edge of his consciousness as he wearily trudged back into the single-story home where he lived along with his daughter, Barbara. She was currently at boarding school, one of the finest in the entire country as a matter of fact.

He missed her terribly, the cheerful hug he'd once been able to count on after a long day's work. The talk of her classes (in which she excelled), her friends, even the boys that young Barbara had begun to take notice of. Without her, the house felt empty and unwelcoming.

He closed the door to shut out the winter cold and slowly removed his hat, overcoat, and boots. He then lit the main lamps in the dining room, kitchen and washroom, followed by the fireplace at last. The warmth was some relief, at least.

He reentered the washroom lighting the gas-heated water tank. He would draw a bath, relax, and get some sleep. The demands of his job could wait until the morning.

Ten minutes later he, was sinking into a warm bath, steam rising like a soft, intangible cushion. His eyes closed.

And then shot open. The sixth sense that he'd been forced to develop over the years was blaring. He bolted upright.

He was not alone.

Immediately, he threw back the translucent curtain that segregated the cast iron bath tub from the main washroom.

And there he stood. The Joker.

Gordon gasped, his mind racing for an escape route while simultaneously realizing that he was completely at the other man's mercy. He was naked in a tub, and while he could see no weapon in the Joker's hands, it would be suicide to assume he wasn't armed.

And Good Lord! Up close, his features were immensely disturbing. The scarred, knotted tissue at the corners of his moth bespoke some horrible past mutilation. They gave him the impression of smiling, even though his expression was as cold as ice. His skin was. . .it was actually white. Gordon realized with a start that the discoloration was not makeup. He could see the blue veins in his neck and face under the chalky complexion.

He was dressed well. An expensive suit and shoes. It was completely incongruous with his horrific visage.

"Jackson Cale?" Gordon spoke, forcing an evenness to his voice that he did not feel. "Is that you?"

The Joker squatted down so that he was at eye level with Gordon. "Well, in the metaphysical sense, I suppose you could say so."

That voice! Discordant high and low notes, like an out of tune cello. He recognized it immediately. "You!"

The Joker just laughed, though there was no mirth in the outburst. He withdrew his hand from his pocket and the sinister tip of a syringe glinted in the lamplight. "In the flesh."

Gordon knew then that he was going to die. It was Barbara's face that flashed before his eyes. That boarding school- he had never been so glad for it. At least out of the house his daughter was safe from this monster.

"I don't suppose you'll tell me why you've come to kill me," he said, settling back into the water."

"Let's just say I'm rather fond of your replacement."

"My replacement?" Realization dawned. "Morrison. I always did wonder how he afforded those damned watches of his on a constabulary salary. And the diamond necklaces his mistresses seem to love."

"He's useful," the Joker said as he prepared the syringe, holding it up in the air to check its contents. "And when he isn't, perhaps I'll make a house call to him as well."

Gordon gestured to the syringe. "And the needle?"

"Deep in the jungles of the savage South American continent, there lives a frog whose venom is one of the leading causes of death for the indigenous peoples to this day. It is amazing, what Darwin's process has granted the various species on this planet with regard to defense mechanisms.

"To the matter at hand, however, this venom also mimics the symptoms of a cardiac arrest."

"You think anyone will believe this is an accident?" Gordon let out a horse laugh.

"An older man, wearied and stressed by the demands of his occupation? It's been known to happen. I don't think your demise will be examined too carefully." He pushed the stopper just enough for a test of the fluid. A thin stream of clear liquid squirted out.

Gordon leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He thought of Barbara who would return home an orphan. He offered a silent prayer for her.

And the there was a sharp pain. A needle, plunging into the flesh behind his left ear. His eyes widened as the foreign substance entered his bloodstream, deadening the muscles and nerves in its path. He felt his heartbeat skip, and erratically drum. There was more pain. He couldn't breathe, not correctly at any rate.

"Rot in hell, _Locke_," he rasped.

And then he felt nothing at all.

* * *

A/N: That chapter took waay longer to complete than it should have .My apologies. As always, apologies for the grammatical/historical/factual oopsies keener eyes than mine may catch. . .

Hope you enjoyed, and though I will keep updating regardless, do know that I deeply appreciate the feedback I get from readers.

Til next tiime

-C


	9. The Power of Demonstration

**The Next Morning**

"Before we begin this," Bruce was saying, "it is important that all of us understand the dangers involved. The risk of taking action against the Harlequin Foundation."

Andrea appreciated the inclusive language, though the patronizing words were less welcome. "We wouldn't be here if we weren't committed to bringing Locke down," she replied, arms folded.

"What he has taken from us, from this city, can never be replaced," Diana added, leaning against the study's oak bookshelf. "With that said, I do hope you have a plan."

Bruce pursed his lips. "I do. Though I don't think you're going to like it. And we will all need to work very hard to make this happen."

They nodded, listening intently.

His gaze strayed to the high ceiling. "We can't climb the fence- it's impossible, as Scott pointed out. The terrain is intraversible and packed with traps and snares. We can't sneak in on the supply train, because they'll be guarded even more heavily than they were when Scott infiltrated. "

"And your solution?" pressed Andrea impatiently.

Bruce cast his gaze toward the high, arched ceiling. "We're going to fly in."

* * *

"But unfortunately, there was no sign of the Freemans," Carrasco finished, the end of a very long and unpleasant report to Locke. He hated to be in that position, forced to admit to failure. He was Carrasco. The bane of Gotham. He did not fail.

"I'm not fond of the way that Bruce Wayne and Diana Princeton have been appearing around every corner. Wayne's interference at the magic show may very well have been a coincidence, but to show up at Scott Freeman's residence with Diana Princeton. . .

"They know something," Carrasco said darkly. "Somehow, the Beaumont girl got to them."

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps? Don't tell me you've come to believe in happenstance now?"

Locke smiled thinly. "The machinations of Wayne and the Princeton girl will come to nothing, _that_ is what I believe. Your man had his chance to dispose of Wayne, and that effort fell somewhere short of success, by my recollection. Whatever Wayne knows, whatever the Princeton girl knows, it is not enough to hurt me. So I will let them be, for now."

"You underestimate them-"

"No." Locke cut him off. "You underestimate me. Now I'll hear no more talk of this for the time being. We have much work to do. The dearly departed Commissioner of the Gotham constabulary will be discovered any day now, the unfortunate victim of those maladies which sometimes afflict the heart. The transition of power must be effected without impediment, and you will see to that. Otherwise, you will be invisible for the coming week. There is a delicate balance at play and I won't have it disturbed." He took a moment to calm his breathing and voice. "I am leaving for the weapons compound, and probably won't be back until tomorrow. I trust you can oversee things here when I'm gone."

Carrasco had served with Locke long enough to recognize those opportune moments when silence was indeed golden. So he nodded. Still, he feared that Bruce Wayne and Diana Princeton were far more dangerous than Locke had imagined.

* * *

**The Wayne Manor**

Maddeningly, Bruce had failed to elaborate on his ridiculous proposition. It wouldn't do any good to fret over the apparent impossibility of manned flight into a heavily guarded compound, he had told them. Rest assured, there was a way to accomplish it. But first, they needed to get the key.

"You condition one absurdly impossible proposition upon another, merely somewhat impossible proposition," Andrea summarized sarcastically.

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I don't think it will be all that difficult."

Diana was already shaking her head. "Locke is rarely ever seen in broad daylight, and then most often accompanied by that elephantine associate of his. He wears the key around his bloody neck. How are we supposed to relieve him of it?"

Bruce seemed utterly nonplussed by what Diana felt was a very valid objection. "I spent nearly two years in Cairo learning how to do just that," he said. "Leave the key to me. All I need is entrance to the Princeton Ball-"

"Oh, _now_ you're eager to attend," remarked Diana.

"Well naturally, it's our best chance of securing the key. And it won't just be me either. I shall have an escort."

Both women leaned forward at this news. "My, aren't you full of surprises today," Andrea was the first to speak. "Do tell, who is the lucky young lady?"

"You are," Bruce replied. "Oh, you'll be disguised of course, on top of which you'll be wearing a mask like everyone else. And trust me, the Princeton Ball is the last place anyone would think to look for you. As for myself, with a woman by my side I'll attract far less attention than as an unattached male roaming about."

Andrea looked stunned. "That's bold, even for you Bruce."

"Well are you up to the challenge? I could come up with a different plan but of course-"

"I never said I wouldn't do it," muttered Andrea. "Of course I'm up to the challenge."

"Perfect. Now, we have exactly three days to plan and prepare for the night of the Princeton Ball. In short, we are going to steal Locke's key-" he paused, noticing the smirk on Diana's face. "What, what is it?"

"'Steal Locke's key'," she repeated. "It's an amusing phrase, that's all."

Bruce glowered, clearly not sharing in her amusement. "As I was saying, we will need to steal the key and leave the ball by midnight. That will give us approximately eight hours of nighttime cover for our infiltration-"

"Pardon the interruption, but you want to break into his manufacturing compound the _same night_?" Andrea asked incredulously.

"Well we haven't much choice, have we? Any longer and Locke might visit himself. At which point he would realize very quickly that the imitation key I intend to substitute the original with is a forgery. No, it has to be that night."

"So we all manage to slip out with no one wondering at our conspicuous absences, then we sprout wings for this brilliant infiltration plan of yours?" Diana summarized, her tone laced with skepticism.

Bruce found that he didn't enjoy the two women teaming up on him at all. Though their concerns were valid. . . to most, his plan would seem ludicrous in the extreme. Having seen both of them perform under pressure, he knew that with their help he could pull this off. Assuming he could get them to agree to it in the first place."

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a few moments before standing up. "Please, follow me."

Andrea and Diana exchanged puzzled glances before slowly rising to follow him up the spiral stairs. They passed the study and continued to a separate, smaller stairway. It was hidden by a jutting out portion of the wall, which was why Diana had never before noticed this third level in the manor.

"What's up here?" asked Andrea as she fell into single file behind Diana, thanks to the narrower walls.

"A long drop," Bruce answered. Cryptically.

Yet another level. Diana had the sensation that it was not used often. The cold was palpable- this section of the manor didn't even appear to be heated.

The room into which they stepped was surprisingly spacious. In it were rolls of fabric and skeletal, winglike frames. They reminded her of the bats that Bruce seemed so fond of. In one corner was something large and outstretched, draped in a white sheet. The blue light of day filtered in through the singular window, casting the entire room in an eerie azure glow.

The telltale sound of a match being struck. And then, a second later, light.

"No electricity up here," Bruce explained, setting the lamp he had just lit on the table in the center of the room.

"What is this place?" Diana asked.

"A workshop, dedicated to one thing and one thing only." He carefully pulled the white sheet away from the construction it had covered.

Diana had never seen anything like it. It was a harness with leather chest straps and metal buckles. Attached to the back were two large black shapes that she couldn't identify.

"I'm overwhelmed," Andrea said dryly.

But Bruce didn't even appear to hear her He was busy slipping into the harness. There were straps that connected to the legs and the arms, not to mention the metal chest piece that secured him to the apparatus at the back.

Diana was beginning suspect what this device was. And why they had come all the way to the top of the manor. She whirled on Bruce. "You're mad!"

"Could you pass me those goggles behind you, on the workbench?"

"Bruce! Please tell me you aren't going to jump out of that window to prove that this contraption can somehow fly."

Andrea looked up from where she had been observing a rather odd looking helmet on the wall with pointy-eared protrusions on either side and a fold-down mask to conceal the upper half of the wearers face. "Excuse me, Bruce is going to do what?"

"He's going to jump out of the bloody window-"

"Ladies!" Bruce interjected, reaching to get the goggles himself. "Don't worry. No one is jumping out of a window."

* * *

**Forest Compound**

"General Richter hopes that you have resolved the troublesome matter previously discussed," clipped the translator, his expression blank as he relayed his superior's precise German.

Locke affected an air of unconcern. "Of course. Now, if it's all the same, I believe you risked a great deal to see a demonstration of my product, and I intend to deliver nothing less."

They were standing on an elevated steel walkway above a sprawling beehive of activity. The steady clang and boom of monstrous machines reverberated in the large warehouse. Richter seemed impressed that such a large operation could be conducted illicitly on British soil, though the purpose of all this activity no doubt confused him.

But not for long.

"A unified Germany," he said grasping the railing as he surveyed the workings below. "That has been your Bismarck's rallying cry, hasn't it?"

"Bismarck no longer wields the power he once did," replied the translator. He was not directly relaying the General's message but it was clear the two were of one mind on this matter. "Perhaps it is for the best. Our united Germany stands strong, thanks to him. But strength untested is useless. He halted our expansion, afraid at the thought of war after having proved so adept at it."

"The French are still recovering," mused Locke.

"Indeed. Now, with his Excellency Kaiser Wilhelm occupying the throne, there is hope that such lamentable lack of ambition can be corrected." The translator paused, as the General said something in a low and somewhat mocking tone.

"The General says that you Americans are fortunate. Bordered by weaklings and imbeciles to the North and South, and fish to East and West. _This_ continent, factitiously sundered as it is, cannot remain so. What is needed is a strong hand. That of conquest."

"Save your speech," Locke said. "Your politics mean little to me. You say conquest, yet your army is rivaled by the British and your navy surpassed. The underwater boats I've been hearing about do show promise. . .but that is nothing compared to what I can offer you." He clapped sharply, startlingly both men. "And now, the demonstration. "

The Germans looked below as a tarp was pulled off what they had assumed to be some sort of large machine. In a sense, they had assumed correctly. The object was clearly mechanical in nature, although it was far more than that. A _vehicle,_ if the treadlike protrusions on the sides were what he thought they were. It was the size of a small gunship, with a main cannon emanating from the front and a smaller manned turret resting above. Smaller being a relative description- as a gun it was a monstrosity.

Located perhaps one hundred feet away from the machine were the familiar sight of infantry formations. Perhaps one hundred wooden soldiers stood at attention, clad in generic army uniforms and wielding bayoneted rifles. In the center of their formation was a smoothbore wheeled cannon, of similar design to many used by the men under his command.

Below, workers were scurrying out of the way, creating a large berth around the test site. It was a testament to the size of this structure that such a thing could be staged in the first place. And to think there were three more like it within the confines of the compound.

His translator pointed at something amidst the wooden army, and as the General peered closer he could see that one of the soldiers was not wooden at all. Which made sense- an inanimate mannequin could hardly fire a cannon.

"First, a demonstration of invulnerability," said Locke, his eyes still glued to the scene below.

And then the cannon fired. It was horrifyingly loud, a sharp boom that reverberated through the entire facility. The translator flinched, despite himself. Even Richter was temporarily deafened by the blast. Locke, on the other hand, seemed completely unaffected.

The aftermath was shocking. Richter had personally witnessed men and horses reduced to fine red mist by point-blank cannonfire. He had seen artillery emplacements annihilated and buildings destroyed.

He had never seen a vehicle survive a direct hit unscathed. And indeed, aside from the darkening of ruined paint, Locke's war machine was unscathed.

"It's just one cannon round," Locke was saying. "Perhaps four or five more will do the trick." He sent the signal down below, and a new round was loaded. BOOM

Smoke was wafting up from below, accompanied by the acrid stench of gunpowder.

"Again!" Locke commanded. BOOM

BOOM

BOOM

The dust had barely settled before Locke ordered, "Turret!"

And the unmanned turret was no longer so. Out of the war machine's top hatch clambered its operator taking hold of the twin handles attached to the gun's boxy ammunition supply.

The sound of the automated gun was (relatively) quieter but no less fearsome. The sharp muzzle flash cast a flickering glow across the test area, as did the whizzing rounds which proceeded to shred through the wooden battalion. More wood splinters and fragments bursting into flame, pulverized by the thousands of bullets being fired. The ammunition belt for the gun, which disappeared into a side aperture, seemed endless.

It was, Richter would later recall, like bearing witness to the wrath of God Himself.

* * *

Bruce hadn't technically lied when he told Andrea and Diana that he wouldn't be jumping out of a window.

Which was of precious little consolation when they found themselves on the very roof of the manor itself. The height was far more dizzying seen from here than ground level. And Bruce was about to jump off.

"When you break your legs, I should certainly hope you have a plan for infiltrating Locke's compound in a wheelchair," Diana said, only half-joking.

"Don't be ridiculous," replied Bruce as he extended the 'wings' of his flying contraption. "An uninterrupted fall from that height wouldn't merely cripple me. I would certainly die."

She didn't know which was worse, the times his humor seemed nonexistent or those, like today, where it simply ran toward the very morbid.

Andrea, arms crossed, was looking away from the entire thing. "There have been a few times over the past few days where I wished you would jump off of a roof," she had said. "Now does not happen to be one of them."

But Bruce didn't seem inclined to heed either of their wishes. "It's perfectly safe," he said, not for the first time. "I'll prove it."

And with those words, he took a running start and launched himself off of the roof of the Wayne manor.

Down he went, immediately plunging out of sight. Diana felt as if her heart had literally leapt into her throat. She braced herself for the fateful sound of crushed flesh and bone.

But then he reappeared. Not as a pile of broken limbs on the stone walkway below, but as a sleek, dark shape skimming at a level some three stories above ground. He cut an imposing silhouette that resembled nothing so much as a giant bat, wings outstretched and prepared to pounce upon its unsuspecting prey.

Gradually, Bruce descended. _Fell _wasn't quite the correct term at all since his horizontal progress far surpassed his vertical descent. Eventually, he came low enough that his foot was able to touch ground. He skipped lightly, still traveling at a fairly high speed. Each successive dip, he slowed down slightly by pushing off with his foot, until finally he was able to slow to a complete standstill.

With some effort, Andrea closed her gaping jaw. Bruce had traveled a sufficient distance that he was well out of earshot. They could barely make out his features. Of course, it was very clear that despite their dire warnings, he had survived none the worse for wear.

"Well," Andrea said finally. "I'll be damned."

For once, the two women were in complete agreement.

It took Bruce a full two minutes to get back to the base of the manor. The glider wings were still attached to him, but they were folded up so that they resembled nothing more than odd-shaped traveler's knapsack. He looked up at them expectantly. "Well?"

"I will admit to being impressed," Diana allowed, hating the fact that she had to shout it for him to hear.

There was a twinkle in his eye. "I know."

* * *

General Richter watched the devastation with two emotions that he had rarely experienced over the course of his illustrious military career.

Awe, of course.

And fear.

This was end to warfare as he knew it. As the world knew it. Automatic weaponry and mechanized combat vehicles would be the death knell of the traditional cavalry. Just one of these could decimate a small battalion of infantry. Cannonballs were useless against it. Which was to say nothing of the sheer terror that this behemoth would strike in the hearts of the enemy.

He knew, as surely as he had known anything in his entire life, that Germany needed this technology. Not just to conquer, but to survive.

"You have already sent these designs to the British high command?" he asked as casually as possible. His translator dutifully relayed the query, and he was answered by a conspiratorial smile from Locke.

"No, my dear general. Not yet. But this technology will make its way into Her Majesty's hands, you can count on that. What I offer you is the chance to have it first. For the right price."

"What about the Americans?" Richter wanted to know. "Have you given any of this to your own country?"

To which that disturbing smile of Locke's only grew. "I have no country. No allegiance to any but the highest bidder."

Personally, Richter found such a mercenary philosophy repulsive. A man with no loyalties and no sense of duty was scum. Lower than scum. It was simply the way of the world that in order to accomplish one's goals, such people had to be negotiated with.

"I wish to see more," he said after a prolonged silence. "The chemical weapons I have heard of, for instance. . ."

Locke shrugged once the message was relayed to him. "As you wish. We will have to travel to the adjacent facility, where these substances are created and tested?"

"Tested?" asked Richter's translator as they descended the stairs leading back to ground level. "How are they tested?"

Locke didn't so much as break a stride. "How do you think?"

* * *

Diana had refused, of course. There was no way she would willingly throw herself off the roof of a building from a fatal height. It was unthinkable, despite the feat that she had just seen Bruce perform with his glider.

Indeed, her answer might have remained a firm 'no' were it not for Andrea, who unexpectedly interjected, "I'll do it."

And so it was that, just as the scattered snow from the early morning resumed its light descent, Andrea Beaumont prepared a light descent of her own off of the roof of the Wayne manor. She was shivering, having had to remove her jacket and blouse in order to properly fasten the flying harness. Bruce, behind her, was able to secure the last few straps where she had difficulty reaching.

"How does it feel?" he asked, stepping back to get the full picture of Andrea wearing the harness.

"Lighter than I expected," Andrea replied. She experimentally raised her left arm while grasping the extension handle. In perfect synchronization with her arm's movement, the left wing of the apparatus unfurled to approach its magnificent reach. "Think I could go further if I flapped?"

"No flapping," Bruce said as seriously as the two words could be said. "This is a glider. Your arms will remain outstretched at all times while airborne, unless you pull the secondary lever just behind the extension handles. That will lock the wings in position, allowing free use of your arms."

Andrea turned to Diana. "What about you? Any sage words of wisdom before I jump?"

In a perfect deadpan, she replied, "If you see the ground rushing toward you too quickly, do your best to get out of its way."

Andrea actually laughed at that. "I shall try."

And then with a running start, she jumped.

Like Bruce, she fell at first, plummeting sharply before air resistance caught the glider's wing and arrested her descent. The snap produced as the wings exploded to full span was audible across the winter breeze.

She glided. Not as gracefully as Bruce, but well enough that she would survive the landing. Andrea even let out a little whoop of exhilaration when a strong gust of wind, buoyed her an additional dozen yards or so.

Her landing was not as smooth as Bruce's, but then that was hardly the point. She'd flown. And at that moment Diana began to see the tiniest sliver of possibility in Bruce's plan. The three of them, outfitted with glider harnesses like Bruce and Andrea had just demonstrated, could bypass all of the compound's ground-based security measures. The moat and wall would mean nothing.

"I'm beginning to think your madness is contagious," she remarked to Bruce as Andrea gathered the glider and made her way back to the manor. "I'm actually considering this."

His smile was enigmatic. "You love a good challenge. One of your best qualities, in my book."

She scowled at him, as if sure he was poking fun at her. Though the way he'd said it, she didn't quite think so. More likely, his compliments simply caught her off guard when she least expected them.

"If I break my neck doing this, know that I'll haunt the both of you for the rest of your natural lives," she said at last once Andrea had reappeared with the harness."

"Less talk, more jumping off of rooftops," Andrea tutted impatiently, her nose still a bright red from the windchill of her flight .

"Indeed," Bruce said. "Strap up."

* * *

**Home of Dr. Thompkins**

"Once again, I've enjoyed myself immensely in your company, Alfred," Leslie Thompkins said as they stood at her front door. Alfred, the consummate gentleman, had graciously accompanied her to the front step of her home and she found herself wishing that they did not have to part ways so soon.

"Today was the most fun I've had in quite some time," Alfred said, somehow managing to keep a shiver from his voice.

"I hope that means you're planning on seeing me again, Mr. Pennyworth."

In the moonlight, she could see the smile lines around his pale blue eyes deepen. "And again, and again, if you'll let me."

And despite the cold, she found herself blushing to the roots of her hair. Flustered, she brought her hands out of her pockets and clasped them together. "You, um. . .you have a long, cold ride back to the manor, don't you?"

"Oh, it's nothing quite so bad," Alfred said nonchalantly.

"Still, I'd feel just wretched if I didn't brew you a pot of tea for your journey back."

"Tea?"

"I do brew a mean cup."

Alfred, who was no slouch at making the drink himself, actually chuckled. "I must warn you, I've tasted of the very finest teas this side of the Orient. I'm a difficult man to impress."

Leslie turned the key and opened her front door, stepping inside and beckoning Alfred to follow her. He closed the door just in time to watch her disappear into the kitchen after lighting the wall lamp.

He surveyed the house. Small, but well furnished. There was hunting paraphernalia above the fireplace, several sport guns and bear traps. Her deceased husband's, he speculated. Despite the increased time he had spent with her over the past days, he realized that he still knew very little of Doctor Leslie Thompkins' past.

Though to be fair, she knew very little about his either.

Leslie reappeared, sans her winter jacket. She really was a beautiful woman, middle age having granted her a simple grace that eluded most women. Her silver hair, worn in a modern chignon, only enhanced her beauty.

"The tea should be ready in five minutes or so," Leslie said. If she had noticed the direction his thoughts were taking, she didn't let on. "In the meantime, you might as well sit and take off your coat." She strode the fireplace and flicked an inset switch above the hearth. Then she sat down on the sofa immediately across from the wall.

Alfred nodded and slipped off his wool jacket. He took a seat just in time to see the fireplace spring to life. He turned sharply, startled.

Leslie gave a gentle laugh. "It's an electric fireplace," she explained.

"An electric fireplace. . ."

"Yes. It can function by burning wood, but I've set it to burn gasoline. The flick of a switch and an electric spark alights the fuel."

"At times like this, I can't help but wonder what they will invent next."

"It's almost frightening to contemplate, the potential of new technologies," Leslie agreed.

Alfred agreed, all the while noticing that over the course of the past few minutes, their arms had come to touch. _Speaking of electric sparks. . ._

His gaze rose to meet hers, unprepared for the fact that hers was already on him. Their eyes locked and for a moment, he was utterly lost.

It was a feeling he hadn't experienced in decades. It almost frightened him.

"Leslie. . ."

"Yes?"

"The umm. . ." he took a deep breath. "The tea?"

To his surprise, she stifled a laugh. Her hand came up to brush along his jaw, her thumb pausing to playfully brush at his trim mustache. "Oh, Alfred. . .there is no tea."

Realization dawned an instant before their lips met. Her hand curled around the back of his neck and he instinctively wrapped an arm around her waist. Without breaking the kiss, she shifted her body so that she was sitting on his lap.

And so, with all propriety apparently thrown to the wind, Alfred Pennyworth relented fully to the desire and attraction he felt for this woman. He deepened the kiss and allowed his hand to roam the length of her spine, its form barely hidden by the simple cotton blouse she wore.

Leslie's free hand dexterously popped the buttons of his tweed vest. She noted with appreciation the feel of solid muscle underneath. She tugged at his shirt, freeing it from his waistband. She kicked off her shoes and ran her foot along the side of his calf. His hand rose to cradle her cheek and brush stray silver locks from her face.

"My god." Alfred breathed once the kiss finally broke. "

"I don't know whether to apologize or to keep kissing you so you can't ask me to," Leslie said in a rush, her own breath coming short.

Alfred chuckled. "Perhaps we're both a bit out of practice-"

_THWUMP_. The sound of something large and heavy slamming into the door cut off any reply Alfred could have made. Leslie froze, the hairs of her neck standing on end. Her heart felt as though it had literally stopped in her chest.

Alfred gently disentangled himself from her. "Wait here," he said, his voice low.

"Alfred!" it was a terse whisper. She was genuinely fearful for him.

"Wait. Here." His tone brooked no dissent. He made his way to the door, prepared for anything that should await him on the other side. He silently counted to three and then yanked the door open.

The image before him did not register.

An older man. Recognizable, but not terribly so because he looked somewhere south of dead. Pale skin, faint breaths. He was naked underneath the quilt he was wrapped in. Barefoot. Alfred could see the trail of footprints leading from one of the neighboring homes.

"Alfred?" came Leslie's voice.

This was not a small man, but Alfred had more than enough experience carrying the wounded, both in and out of the service. Deftly, he propped the Commissioner up just enough to leverage underneath him and lift him off the ground. The strain was tolerable, barely.

"Leslie, I need you to get your equipment _now_. This man is dying of hypothermia and God knows what else. " He closed the door to shut out the elements and turned around. Leslie gave a small gasp

"Is that. . .is that _Gordon_?"

"Not for long, if we don't hurry."

She immediately nodded and rushed to retrieve her medical equipment. Alfred laid the Commissioner on the couch, scooting it closer to the fire. The quilt he had worn was far too cold and wet to be of any use right now. They would have to secure him a fresh one.

Gordon groaned something low and incomprehensible. To Alfred's ear, it almost sounded like. . .'Locke'.

* * *

**Metropolis, USA**

Clark Kent was still getting used to his Metropolis office, two weeks into his employment with the Daily Planet. One of America's most respected newspapers, he'd been lucky to secure a job with them in the first place. Honest, hard hitting journalism was a rarity in this era of sensationalism, and that above anything else was what had drawn him to the offices of the Daily Planet.

Though he did wish his own was a tad bigger. His books and files seemed to take up half the room, and the typewriter on his desk competed for space with the pile of mail and assignments that never seemed to shrink. His consolation lay only in the fact that here he could work on what what he wanted to with a degree of autonomy that would be impossible anywhere else.

He shifted through stacks of paper until he saw the one tabbed 'Cameron Locke'. _This, for instance. . ._

A light, yet insistent knocking interrupted his thoughts. Looking up, he saw his supervisor, Lois Lane, at the door.

'Unlocked', he mouthed.

She nodded and stepped in, her demeanor curt and businesslike as usual. "Good morning, Mr. Kent."

"Good morning." He adjusted his spectacles self-consciously. "And please, call me Clark."

She held up a telegraph parcel. "For you. From a Mr. Scott Freeman."

The name was familiar, though Clark was surprised to hear it. From all the way-"

"In England, yes. These transatlantic messages are not inexpensive, Clark."

Saying his name like that, she reminded him of nothing so much as his primary school teachers. If they had been vivacious dark-haired beauties, at any rate."

He shook himself from where those thoughts were going. Lois was not the sort of woman or supervisor who would appreciate his wayward fantasies, and the least he could do while he had this job was attempt to be professional. He could tell that the stares a female lead reporter and editor attracted did not land unnoticed. He, at least, could prove that he was beyond that kind of-

"Clark!" She thumped the parcel down on his desk. "Next time, I want an authorization request before you send or receive one of these."

He stared blankly at the package. "Scott Freeman was a source for the Locke article. A valuable one, at that. I was to meet him here in the States, but I wasn't expecting a telegram. Something must have happened."

Lois' frown softened a bit. "Well, are you going to read it?"

Clark was already reading the message, however. Where the ability to see through solid, opaque objects had come from he did not know. It had manifested a few years back, along with a few other extraordinary 'gifts'. The others were rare and completely outside of his control, but the Vision. . .that he could use at will. It had even come in handy on some of his previous assignments.

Now, it was telling him that Cameron Locke had just jumped up the list. He was a number one priority.

"Lois, I'm going to have to file one of those authorization requests. Immediately"

"But you haven't even read the message-"

He continued, having neither the time nor the inclination to correct her. "The message is extremely urgent. And the recipient's name is Wayne. Bruce Wayne.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED. . .

* * *

**Author's Note**

Apologies again for the late update and the shorter-than-usual chapter. I've been rather busy with school (and graduating from it) over the past few months. Still, this story is definitely coming into its own and I have the course of the plot already set. Needlessly to say, I can't wait to get to some of these upcoming scenes.

Anyway, feedback is appreciated per usual. I will try to respond to questions and comment too, because the peer review, even in internet fiction, should be an interactive process.

So, I hope you enjoyed. Lois and Clark will definitely be having a bigger role to play over the course of events, as will the triangle between Bruce, Andrea, and Diana. As for the historical bits, I've always been fascinated by the evolution of military technology and especially the revolution that happened leading up to World War I. Apologies for any historical, grammatical, or linguistic errors to be found.

Hope all of you reading this had a wonderful holiday. Til next time!

-C


	10. Lesson Learned

"How is he?" Alfred asked for the umpteenth time. He wrung his hands distractedly, wishing he could do something to help. Of course, Leslie had made it quite clear that he would only be getting in her way. And though he was an accomplished medic from his army days, her expertise was unquestionably more robust.

So, aside from fetching warm towels and water upon request, he'd been relegated to passive observation. He strained to make sense of Gordon's incomprehensible ramblings, but to no avail.

What had happened? He tried to piece together scenarios that could make sense of a naked, freezing Gordon at their doorstep. Had he been robbed, his clothes taken by a cruel highwayman? It hardly seemed plausible. . .

"How is the patient doing?" he ventured for the first time in an hour.

Leslie turned around, her expression one of frustration. "He's showing signs of recovery from the hypothermia, especially with his core body temperature. Still, I'm seeing symptoms that I don't know how to interpret. The slurred speech, and inability to swallow. . .I'm wondering what exactly I'm missing here."

Alfred frowned. "Inability to swallow?"

"Yes, I've been trying for the longest time to get him to drink some tea. I can't force it down of course, unless I want it getting trapped in his lungs. But the swallowing reflex is impaired. And the salivation. . .that is not consistent with the hypothermia. Not any case I've ever seen."

"Odd," Alfred mused. "Back in the Xhosa wars, we used to treat symptoms like that. Neurotoxic venom."

"Which is what I thought, but how on earth would he have been exposed to venom in Gotham? And in the middle of winter no less."

"I can't imagine," Alfred admitted. "But you do have antivenin, correct?"

"Some, yes. But I can't risk it with Gordon. Have you ever seen the allergic reactions-"

"His entire nervous system could shut down if you don't. The oral paralysis is just a precursor. And it doesn't seem to have abated in the slightest."

Leslie looked ruefully at her dying patient. "_Venom_? Really?"

"We can ask him about it _after_ we save his life," Alfred said. "Now where is the antivenin?"

* * *

**Wayne Manor**

It was the end of a long day of flight practice, the three of them practicing the techniques they would need to successfully navigate over the compound walls with some degree of accuracy. As a simulation, the roof of the manor left much to be desired. The sheer cliff edge from which they would be launching was a good four hundred foot drop at least. They would have to coordinate with enough precision so as to land within reasonable distance of each other. All without alerting any sentries present.

Andrea would be bringing her trusted carbine- there was no talking her out of that one. Darts loaded with sedatives were fine for a stealth operation, but if something went wrong. . .he was inclined to agree. They would need the extra firepower.

Diana was gone by evening, her many other obligations limiting the time she could spend at the manor. Bruce had retired back to that laboratory of his, doing God knows what, and leaving Andrea free to explore to her heart's content.

Unsurprisingly, this found her back in the old forgotten piano room. She moved to turn on the lights, but reconsidered as her eyes adjusted. She rather preferred the darknesss, offset by moonlight streaming through the large single window. The piano's ivory keys shone radiant in the illumination, and the serenely beautiful portrait of the late Mrs. Wayne seemed to show wry amusement in this light.

She sat down and paged through the sheets of music in front of her, finally settling on a piece that she faintly recognized. Slowly at first, she allowed her hands to play the familiar notes. Then, more confidently.

She looked up at the painting of Martha Wayne and marveled, not for the first time, at how beautiful it was. Why Bruce kept it sequestered away in a room he barely used was a complete mystery. If she had such a powerful keepsake for her mother, she'd place in a gilded frame, prominently displayed where she could see it every-

"Andrea?"

Her hands froze mid-movement at the unexpected intrusion. "Hello Bruce."

He stepped in. "You do realize there's a lamp right-"

"I think I prefer the moonlight, actually."

Bruce nodded empathetically. "That song you were playing. . .what was it?"

"Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata," she said, slightly surprised that he wasn't familiar with it.

Bruce closed his eyes briefly, as if placing that one in a sea of memories. "My mother played it quite often," he said. "It was one of her favorites."

Suddenly, Andrea felt keenly intrusive. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to evoke unpleasant memories."

Bruce was quick to shake his head. "You have nothing to be sorry for. I wish I had appreciated her music as a boy. To the contrary, I couldn't stand it. Especially that Moonlight Sonata. I thought it unbearably dreary."

Andrea laughed at this. "Did you ever play?"

"I had lessons. They never took."

"A shame, if only because a beautiful piano such as this goes untouched."

His smile took on a sadder note. "There are many things in this manor that I've scarcely disturbed. I was away from it for so long, and now that I've returned I haven't the faintest clue where to begin. It feels. . .almost as if it isn't mine at all. Like its waiting for my parents to return from a vacation or some such thing."

Andrea tilted her head, turning around on the bench to fully face him. "Do you ever wonder how things would have turned out- how you would turned out- had they never been taken away so young?"

"No," Bruce said. "I simply can't fathom it. And wouldn't care to if I did. The only solace I had after their murder was the knowledge that the man responsible had been brought to justice, and the resolve to eradicate the criminal presence in this city. I spent nearly a decade learning how to do the latter, and now. . .with Locke and the new Joker he has apparently employed, I feel as though things have only gotten worse." He gave a humorless chuckle. "I've actually toyed with the idea of digging up Jackson Cale's grave, did you know that? Just to be sure that this new clown isn't some resurrected version of my parents' killer."

"This case has gotten very personal for you," Andrea murmured. It felt pedestrian to state the obvious so, but the enormity of the impact that their investigation was having on Bruce had never been so apparent.

"They're all personal, from the proper perspective," he replied. "But. . .yes. This one, especially."

"Because of Diana too?" she wanted to know. She realized a split second after the fact that she had voiced the thought aloud. A blush crept up her neck and she furiously hoped that he couldn't tell in the moonlight.

His brow wrinkled in puzzlement. "What do you mean?"

"Well, it's just that I don't anyone's ever seen you take a case with such high profile. . .for free, no less. And Diana, well, who wouldn't want to be her knight in shining armor?"

Bruce didn't take offense, as she half expected. Certainly, she'd lost the ability to filter her thoughts from her words. No, rather, he laughed.

"I'm afraid you have the situation reversed," he said. "She's saved my life. And, fetching as she may be, I wouldn't be doing this merely for the sake of a hero complex." He paused. "That goes for you too, by the way."

Despite his words, Andrea could hear the genuine affection in his voice when he spoke of Diana. She wanted to ask him outright about his feelings for the other woman, but felt that she had garnered enough embarrassment for one day.

So she switched topics. "About the Princeton Ball. . ."

"Ah, yes. Costumes."

"And my disguise. If a single person recognizes me, this plan ends before it even begins."

"Disguises are an expertise of mine, actually. We'll change your hair, your height, your eye color. The proper makeup will suggest an entirely novel facial structure, perhaps masking the cheekbones or accenting the brow ridge. Your costume will be one that reveals very little of your figure- the more mystery the better."

She arched an eyebrow. "Do I actually have a say in any of this?"

"Of course you do. I was merely bringing up practical considerations. But you're the one who will have to walk around wearing whatever it is."

"Without being recognized."

"Your own father won't recognize you."

"He'd better not. He'll probably be there."

Bruce let out a sigh of. . .something. She couldn't quite tell. "We really are insane," he murmured, almost too low for her to hear. The way he said it, it didn't sound all that bad.

Still, Andrea felt compelled to say, "Locke won't know what hit him."

She never found out what Bruce would have said, as the doorbell immediately pierced the silence.

Bruce straightened, startled. "That must be Alfred. I thought he'd be gone til morning. Let's catch him up, shall we?"

Andrea stood and followed him to the front door. The bell rang again twice before they actually reached the door, uncharacteristically impatient of Alfred.

Bruce unlocked and unbolted the door to let him in. "Alfred, I thought you were-"

"Commissioner Gordon is dying." Alfred stated. "I don't know how or why, but he is currently at Leslie's house, where she is attempting to resuscitate him.

Bruce made to move toward the coat rack. "You needn't say more, Alfred. I'll be there right away-"

"No, you will not." Alfred said."Leslie's expertise is unparalleled. Gordon is in the best of hands. And while I don't' know what happened to him, I suspect foul play."

"A direct attack on the Commissioner?" Andrea wondered aloud. "It's a rather bold move."

"Of the type that Locke seems to prefer," Bruce said.

"But why go after Gordon?"

The answer was obvious as soon as she had uttered the words. She clenched her jaw. "This is madness."

"And that's not the worst of it," Alfred said. "When I arrived at first, I noted a carriage I've never seen before stationed just off the property line. Two men, watching the house. To be sure, I circled back ten minutes later. They were still there. Locke must have ordered the manor be put under surveillance."

Bruce's first instinct was to march outside and thrash confessions out of both men. The unmitigated nerve of Locke was beyond belief.

But, that was not the rational course of action. Better to let them watch, for now.

"We do have a problem," Andrea said. "How is Diana to meet us if we are under this kind of scrutiny?"

"That can be arranged," Alfred said. "But both of you, be careful. Please." He looked older than usual, his voice weary and the circles under his eyes prominent.

Bruce placed a hand on Alfred's shoulder. "Do keep us informed on the Commissioner's progress. I want to talk to him as soon as he's feeling up to it."

"Another day at least, I would say."

"Fair enough. Now get some rest, Alfred. You look like you could use it."

* * *

**The Next Day**

Diana arrived at the modest offices of the Daughters of the Amazon to find the last remnants of a weekly meeting on their way out.

Which didn't make sense. The meeting wasn't even supposed to start for another twenty minutes.

She spotted Cassie Sandsmark and waved her down before she could step into her carriage. A handsome, dark-haired young man in the driver's seat frowned in confusion until he spotted Diana.

"Don't worry," she called to him. "I won't keep her too long."

Cassie tightened her shawl, regarding Diana with no small amount of confusion. "Well, this is a surprise."

"What do you mean?" Diana wanted to know. "I'm here for the meeting. Eleven o'clock, the last time I checked."

"Not recently enough, I'm afraid. We had to reschedule for Philppa's university classes. Which you would have known, had you elected to attend the Executive Board meeting."

_Right, yesterday_. Diana felt like a complete idiot. She'd completely forgotten about the E-board meeting for her own organization. And what's worse, it sounded like they'd been able to run it just fine without her.

"Cassie?" said the gentleman in the carriage. The gentle way that he asked indicated that he didn't want to seem unduly impatient, which Diana appreciated.

"Just another minute, Connor." Cassie told him.

Diana's gaze danced from the one to the other. "He seems nice."

Cassie reddened slightly. "He's the one I told you about, Connor. I happened to mention last week that I was having trouble getting to meetings from home, and he offered to take me here and back. I musn't read too much into his generosity, of course. But it's terribly sweet of him. And his paintings, they're just ever so lovely"

Diana, having witnessed the way this lad looked at Cassie, could have told the younger girl that he was just as smitten as she. Of course, some things it was better to discover on one's own. "And why haven't I met him yet?"

Cassie blinked. "Diana, you've been practically absent over the last week. True, there was the rally. A smashing success. But Sharon had a potluck Sunday that you simply did not come to. And the E-board meeting. And today, for the matter." Her brow narrowed. "This isn't like you, Diana."

Diana's eyes dropped. "I have been rather preoccupied of late."

"With what?" Cassie wanted to know.

"I'm afraid I can't say. But you're right, I've been neglectful. You and the rest of our sisters deserve better."

"At least try to make it to the next meeting, will you?"

"I shall," Diana promised.

Cassie beamed up at her and gave her a hug. "Well I must be going. I shall see you soon."

"Count on it." Diana waved her off as the carriage started down the street. She wished the smile plastered on her face were completely genuine, but truth be told she felt more conflicted now than ever. Just imagine, if Cassandra knew what she was planning. That the time not spent with her fellow Daughters had been passed with Bruce Wayne and presumed-dead or missing Andrea Beaumont. That just yesterday she had been gliding off of the top of the Wayne manor.

She contemplated, just in the time it took her to cross the street, telling Bruce that she couldn't do it. It was the sane thing to do, wasn't it? She was no warrior.

And yet, she knew how to fight. How to wield a sword, a bow and arrow, a rifle. . .even her fists. And just a few days ago, when she had saved Bruce from an assassin in his carriage . . .that had been positively exhilarating.

No, she realized. There was no going back. Not now at any rate. Not until Locke was taken care of.

"Paper, miss?" came the voice of a small boy. She looked down at the lad, eight years old or so with unruly red hair and a bundle of the daily newspaper in his arms. His cheeks were red from the cold and the hesitancy in his voice told her that he was expecting a scornful rejection.

She reached into her purse and withdrew enough cash for a dozen newspapers, then knelt down and placed the coins into the breast pocket of his coat. "I would love one."

"For that, you can 'ave all the copies you want!" he exclaimed, his demeanor instantly brightening.

"No, just one will do for today," Diana said kindly. "More for you to sell."

"You've just made my day, ma'am."

Diana opened her mouth to say something, but the headline on her recently purchased newspaper drove all other thoughts from her mind.

COMMISSIONER GORDON FOUND DEAD. ACTING COMMISSIONER MORRISON OPENS INVESTIGATION.

_Bloody Hell!_

* * *

Diana didn't arrive at the manor until late that evening. Getting away from her father's 'babysitters' wasn't terribly difficult, but it was Steven she found the most annoyingly clingy. They'd met later in the afternoon to settle details for the rapidly-approaching Princeton Ball. All in all, she could scarcely remember a thing discussed. Costumes, perhaps? He agreed to give up the Indian Prince and Princess motif, and seemed to have settled on Heracles, of Grecian lore. Diana, along with her fellow Sisters, would go as Amazons, so at least the couple would match.

Three hours just to agree on that. Diana hadn't been able to leave fast enough. She quickly cabbed her way to the Wayne manor, and was ushered right in by Alfred.

She gave him a warm hug. "So good to see you Alfred!"

His usually exuberant smile seemed rather somber today. Nonetheless, he replied. "And you too, Diana."

She looked at him thoughtfully. "Is something the matter, Alfred? Why so glum? And why the rush?"

Alfred sighed. "Not much gets by you does it. At any rate, there have been some new developments, I'm afraid to report. The first is that there seems to be an uninvited patrol outside. They've grown lax with the passing hours, but I wanted to bring you in myself before they took note of your entrance. As for the rest, Bruce and Andrea are in the basement. They should be the ones to bring you up to speed."

Trying not to let her alarm betray itself, Diana smiled curtly and followed the curve of the living room to the basement door. The stairs were steeper than she would have imagined, and twisted at the end. As she descended however, the lighted cavern became more illuminated.

It was massive, easily the size of the entire ground level. And surprisingly uncluttered. There were mats, punching bags, weights an gym equipment, even a climbing wall carved out of the natural underground rock.

Bruce was supporting one of the punching bags which hung suspended from the ceiling, while Andrea peppered it with an impressive array of blows. She was wearing loose fitting men's clothes- his no doubt- allowing her the freedom of movement to kick and punch unlimbered. Bruce for his part wore loose slacks and a sleeveless undershirt that did little to hide his impressive musculature.

Andrea unleashes a one-two combo of elbow strikes on the bag before noticing Diana. She stepped back and wiped a hand across her forehead, which was beginning to show the signs of perspiration. "Guess you made it after all."

Bruce turned as well, releasing the punching bad and approaching Diana. "You're late."

She ignored this. "Did you know that Commissioner Gordon is dead?"

Bruce and Andrea exchanged a glance that told Diana they knew something she didn't. She scowled at both of them. "What was that? Do you already know? How?"

Bruce took a deep breath. "Last night, Alfred and Leslie discovered Gordon half dead at their doorstep. He had been poisoned and left for dead. Were it not for their immediate medical attentions, he would have been. Alfred is positive he heard Gordon say the word 'Locke' before lapsing into an unconscious state from which Leslie has not been able to resuscitate him."

The news sent Diana reeling. In the newspaper, they said they'd found the body."

"To speed along the process of Morrison taking control of the police force, no doubt," Andrea replied. "It seems that Locke was a bit too hasty in his assumptions though. He managed to get it into the newspaper but will be very displeased when there is no body to be found."

Diana let out a string of words which her Sunday School teacher would have fainted to hear. "How is it possible that Locke can act with this much impunity? The police force in his pocket, and now the newspaper too? It makes one wonder if there's any part of this town he doesn't own."

"What it does," Bruce said, "is underscore the importance of our mission tomorrow. Once we know _exactly_ what he's up to, we'll know how to stop him."

Andrea smirked when she saw Diana's eyes rest on the beleaguered punching bag. "Care for a go?"

Diana gestured down at her blouse and long skirt. "I'm hardly attired for it."

"Easily remedied," Bruce chipped in. "You'll find all the athletic wear you could possibly want in the storage closet upstairs. Go on and change, and we'll have the rest of the day to prepare."

* * *

**Metropolis, USA**

"I thought you said a twenty minute ride,"

Clark looked up from the notebook he was reading. A difficult task while being jostled about in a a carriage. Across from, with a look of longsuffering discontent on her face, was Lois Lane.

"You did say twenty minutes, did you not? I believe those were your exact words." The light inside the passenger compartment seemed to dim at the mere iciness of her words.

He peered at her over his spectacles, unsure of what to say. As fond as he was of the no-nonsense reporter, she could be mercilessly acerbic at times. "You do realize I've never actually been to South Metropolis before," he responded. "I can ask the driver if you simply must know when we'll arrive."

Lois crossed her arms. "That won't be necessary."

Clark didn't need to add that Lois was the one who had insisted on accompanying him, not the other way around. He was following a lead on Locke, and she seemed to think he couldn't handle it on his own.

He sighed, cross-checking one page of notes with the other. "It's a beautiful, starry night with a full moon and enough warmth that one can enjoy the snowy landscape unfrozen. Epic poems have been written on less. I for one enjoy the opportunity to experience the fresh air."

Lois rolled her eyes. Please, spare me your pastoral fantasies farmboy. This isn't Smallville, anymore."

He chuckled. Lois had made it clear from day one her disdain for the rural towns on the outskirts of Metropolis. Born and raised in the city herself, he supposed it was understandable (the Kents weren't too fond of 'city slickers' either). "We're not too far from Smallville, actually."

"Oh, perfect."

There was silence for another few minutes, Clark studiously avoiding eye contact and she apparently doing the same. So he was surprised, when he did look up, to find her watching him. Immediately, she looked away, her jaw clenching.

Unsure of what had just transpired, he decided to gamble on a straightforward approach. "I'm not so bad, you know."

"Excuse me?" She was looking at him again, but this time out of sheer confusion.

"I'm not so bad," he repeated. "Once you get to know me."

"And why would I want to do that?"

"Because I'm good writer and a damned good researcher and it would take you a decade of headhunting to find a better journalist in the Metropolis area. Ma'am." Where had that come from? He had no idea, and instantly wished he'd chosen his words a bit more carefully."

Lois said nothing for what seemed like an eternity, her features completely unreadable in the flickering lamplight. "You're a good researcher, she said at last." Another pause. "'Damned' good is stretching it though, farmboy." Was that a smile? From Lois Lane?

"I can settle for good."

"Well you shouldn't. Because you have the potential for far more." She uncrossed her arms, letting her elbows rest on her knees. "I know who you are, Clark. I know your strengths, your gifts, your weaknesses. All of it. And the sum total of that means that you were selected out of literally hundreds of other applicants for this position. By me."

He pursed his lips. "Then why do you dislike me so much?"

Even in the low light, he could see her cheeks redden. "Clark, I don't-"

"We're here," called the driver, cutting off whatever she'd meant to say. If that had been a moment, it was long since past. Clark fished in his pocket for the fare while Lois made sure to exit as quickly as possible."

"Thank you kindly," said the driver upon seeing Clark's generous tip. "I'll be back here in an hour."

"That should do." Clark turned around to survey dilapidated southern end of Metropolis. Abandoned factories and warehouses were a testament to the difficult economic times that had hit its manufacturing center. Some blamed the high taxes, though Clark had spoken with enough steel and mill workers to know that it was the notoriously harsh working conditions that had driven so many laborers elsewhere. Most companies had no shortage of men willing and available to work twelve hour shifts for a pittance. Those based in Metropolis simply hadn't. So they'd folded.

"The Dougal Mill closing was one of the first stories I covered with the Daily Planet," Lois said softly. "It was like a death knell for the entire neighborhood."

"I remember it too," Clark said. "I was away at college, but some good chums of mine lost jobs there. Heartbreaking times." The slight echo that resonated down the industrial corridor only served to underscore how alone they were.

Lois sidled closer to him, almost but not quite touching at the arms. "We can reminisce later. Let's just find this place." Try as she might is was difficult to keep the fear from her voice. South Metropolis in the middle of the night was no picnic by any stretch of the imagination. Even for an intrepid reporter, it was hard not to tremble at the long dark shadows where the moonlight could not reach.

Clark gave her a reassuring smile. "Right. This way then." He followed the row of abandoned buildings past a half dozen intersecting alleyways before reaching the Junkyard. The lot had long since ceased to be viable business operation, and so the heaping piles of scrap metal, machine parts, and abandoned appliances were left to rust into oblivion behind a continuous eight foot tall gate. Posted at eye level was large sign which read: Do Not Enter. Trespassing is Forbidden by Law

Lois halted in her tracks once the sign came into view. "Well, that's unfortunate."

"Why do you say?"

"We can't go any further. It seems the area is restricted."

Clark's smile widened, like she was a toddler who had uttered an adorable turn of phrase. "That's cute, really."

"We can't-"

"I was hopping worse fences than this when I was thirteen," Clark told her. Which was true. "In and out, just like that. I promise."

"And what if someone sees us?"

"No one will." Which was also true. He'd used his enhanced vision to search for anyone else in the area. They were, for all intents and purposes, alone.

Lois looked at him, then the fence, then at him, and then at the fence again. "Damn farmboys," he thought he heard her mutter before she scrambled onto the fence and scaled it, swinging herself over to the other side and landing with catlike precision on her feet.

He was, admittedly, impressed.

* * *

**Wayne Manor**

**Underground Caverns**

Bruce had promised a day of preparation, and he did not disappoint. First, he showed them how to use the air-powered dart launchers he had worked up, similar to the one housed inside his cane. They were superficially gun-like, with bulbous tanks of compressed air housed above the barrel. The darts themselves were approximately three inches long, sleek with synthetically feathered tufts at the ends for flight stability. The tip came to a shard needle point almost too small for the eye to focus on.

Diana held one of the darts up to the overhead lights. "I'm at a loss. How does the injection mechanism work without a hollow tip?"

Bruce swung open the breech of the dart gun he held. "The sharp point is necessary to pierce clothing, multiple layers if necessary. However, there are very small openings located slightly higher on the shaft. Sudden pressure on the tip causes the paralytic agents within to eject through these holes and into the victim's bloodstream. Speech and sight impairment, followed by unconsciousness, are almost immediate."

"How many of these do we have?"

"Twelve?"

Diana frowned at the low number. "Per person?"

"No, in all. I learned the technique to create these in Burma, but I was by no means an expert. The dart gun is a more efficient delivery system than a blowgun, of course. But the darts themselves are extremely difficult to produce."

"Brilliant," muttered Diana.

"What's brilliant?" This was Andrea, returning to them after another solo session with the punching bag. Her limited attire clung to a remarkably lithe frame from the sweat, and Bruce found himself staring at her a bit more thoroughly than he'd intended.

Diana, not nearly so oblivious as she pretended, rolled her eyes. "We only have twelve darts for the launchers Bruce made."

Andrea did not seem nearly as dismayed. "Well there's always the _shuriken_."

"Which I have no idea how to use and couldn't learn to in time."

"We have needles and rags for close quarter engagement," Bruce added. "Not to mention more traditional methods for rendering a man unconscious."

"Without making a sound?"

Bruce regarded her strangely for a moment. He set the dart gun down on the table and then suddenly, without warning, lashed his right fist out toward her face.

She opened her mouth to yell in alarm while her own arm came up to block the blow. But it was a feint. Bruce's left hand came from nowhere, covering her mouth in a vise-like grip. Her scream came out as a muffled bleat.

"Bruce!" Andrea exclaimed, stepping forward to a stop to the unexplained aggression. There was no need however. Just as quickly as he'd acted, he withdrew both hands and stepped back from Diana.

"That," he said, "is how to disable a person. Without making a sound."

Andrea mock-clapped. "My, my, leasson lear-"

"Try it again," Diana said, her voice low and steely.

Bruce blinked. "I think that demonstration was sufficient."

"Try. It. Again."

Another blink. "Very well." And sure enough, the same feint. A blur. Almost faster than the eye could see.

Almost. Diana ignored it, let it swipe harmlessly in front of her. The real strike she saw coming from a mile away. Palm flat to clamp over her mouth.

She ducked under the swing, his forearm barely grazing over the top of her hair. He recognized the evasion and reversed course, turning it into a backhand strike. _A _fatal mistake_. _It landed against her side, though he was clearly holding back. There wasn't enough force in the blow to hurt a fly.

So Diana brought her arm forward to trap his forearm between her ribcage and arm. She pivoted on her right foot and swung her left into a low roundhouse kick that caught him in the back of the knee. The joint buckled and Bruce, comically surprise, went down on the compromised knee. Before he could react further, Diana followed the pivot to angle herself behind him, twisting his trapped arm behind his back in the process. She crooked her left arm around the front of his neck and, securing a firm grip on her opposite bicep completed the chokehold.

A few seconds, in all. Bruce looked painfully confused, Andrea shocked.

"Lesson learned?" Diana asked, right into Bruce's ear. Her leverage was absolute, and he was completely at her mercy.

Though still cheeky. "Technically, I could have screamed."

"And I could have crushed your trachea."

Bruce winced, more from her tone than the discomfort of his position. "Lesson learned."

She released him, smoothing out the wrinkles of her borrowed shirt and pants. Andrea looked like she wanted to burst out laughing, but was trying to hold in check.

Bruce rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "That was an impressive move," he said. "Whoever trained you trained you well."

"Well enough," Diana allowed.

"And I shan't be attempting any more impromptu combat demonstrations," Bruce said. "I apologize."

The adrenaline rapidly fading, Diana had to admit that he looked adorably sincere. She could think of no other man, besides her father, who would accept a thrashing at the hands of a woman with such aplomb. His politics might not be perfect, but he truly respected her. As an equal.

Gratified, she nodded in acceptance. "Forgiven and forgotten."

"Well." Andrea clapped her hands to attract their attention. "This really has been amusing, but shall we get back to business?"

Realizing that they'd let their eyes meet for a few seconds too long, Bruce and Diana tore their gazes away. To his credit, he continued unruffled. "We'll practice with the dart guns, using some of the defective ones I made. They don't hold or release the sedative properly, but they should fly just fine and give you a feel for how to fire the weapon."

And practice they did, until all three were comfortable hitting a target at twenty paces. Of course, this was not nearly the end of their preparation. They rehearsed takedowns against armed opponents, joint locks, nerve pinches, and every other martial arts technique in any of their extensive repertoires. They practiced with ropes, climbing and descending and tying knots and creating lariats. They practiced how to fall from great heights without making a sound, and fall from even greater without breaking a bone. There was nothing new, of course, but by that evening Diana was being to feel the soreness of exerting muscles she rarely had to use.

"It's getting late," she said once her feet touched the ground from a rapid zipline descent. It was her ninth time practicing the maneuver and she had finally managed to land silently.

"Yet you've mastered the technique," Bruce said approvingly.

She nodded, hoping he wasn't going to insist she stay much longer. She was tired and though she could leave any time, she would prefer not appear as if she couldn't keep up with Bruce and Andrea. "Much more of this and we'll be too sore tomorrow for the real thing."

From the makeshift practice range, Andrea seemed to disagree, but Bruce was the first to speak. "Yes, perhaps a break is in order. And I suppose you'll have to be going for now."

"It's a big day tomorrow, I've heard."

"Indeed." He turned to Andrea. "I'll be back, after I've escorted Diana out."

Andrea shrugged. "I'm not going anywhere."

So Bruce gestured to the stairs and he and Diana made their way to the back entrance of the manor. She found herself wishing that her time alone with Bruce could be longer than the scant minutes it would take to see her off toward home. Not that she minded Andrea. Much. It just seemed at times like whatever had started to grow between her and Bruce had been jarred by the sudden arrival of Andrea Beaumont back. And she wanted that feeling, that. . .chemistry. She missed it.

"So," she began as they stepped outside, turning just enough to see him out of the corner of her eye, "how has it been with an extra resident at the manor?"

"You mean Andrea?"

"Unless you've got someone else hidden in there."

"Ah." He seemed to genuinely consider the question. "I enjoy her company, and she's hardly an imposition. Still, there's a restlessness there. . .more than that, a rage. She's quick enough to laugh and smile in conversation, but I don't think she'll enjoy a moment of true happiness until her sister's killers are brought to justice."

"I'm sure you can empathize," Diana said.

"I can. And those years after my parents' deaths. . .it was a dark path. Left to my own devices, I would be a very different man than I am now."

"You should write a book someday," she suggested playfully. "The Memoirs of Bruce Wayne. No, the Adventures of Bruce Wayne."

"An accurate title, at any rate. You'll be my editor, naturally."

"Naturally."

The conversation hung suspended between them as they finally came to face each other. A good bye would have been appropriate, Bruce thought, but he didn't want to have to offer one just yet. Here, in the winter's moonlight, he could almost pretend that it wasn't a series of murders that brought them together. That it was just Bruce and Diana, enjoying the conversation and company of one another.

"What are you thinking?" Diana asked him directly. She was tall enough that she didn't have to tilt her head back to pierce him with those bright eyes of hers, still luminescent blue in the moonlight.

"I'm thinking. . ." he didn't know what to say. He didn't even know what the answer was. There was a remarkable sense of deja vu, the setting mirroring his conversation in the piano room with Andrea just the day before. And yet, this time, something was very different.

She lowered her eyes, just a fraction. "Yes?"

"I'm thinking that I was wrong."

"Wrong? The great Bruce Wayne? Surely such a thing can't be possible!"

"Your adulation is duly noted," he said wryly. "And. . .I was wrong about women.

"'Remarkably backward', as you put it when we first met."

"Oh, I did not say that-"

"Yes, yes you did! Scarcely over a week ago." She laughed, then switched into a mock-baritone. "I simply don't believe that roles clearly intended for men should be taken up by women.' Honestly, Bruce, I thought you were quite a cad."

He gave a self-deprecatory wince. "And now look at us."

She rocked idly back on her heels. "But you came around. Even if you didn't come to my rally-"

"Which I already explained, by the way."

"And which I've almost forgiven."

"Almost?"

Her eyes twinkled."Well, you haven't exactly made it up to me, Bruce."

He stepped closer, shaking his head. "I just spent an entire day showing you how to use technology so secret even the government doesn't know of its existence."

"You gave me a glider and practically pushed me off of a roof," she corrected, stepping even closer. "And you invented a dart gun. Regular Da Vinci you are."

Their chests were almost touching, a fact of which Diana was all the more keenly aware since the _badum _of her heart seemed to drown out every other sound. And Bruce. . .his face was stern but his eyes were practically smoldering.

"Don't talk to me like that," he said, his voice a low rumble.

Her gaze dropped to his mouth before meeting his eyes squarely. "Or what, Mr. Wayne?"

And he had no answer, given that he was pretty sure she could take him in any sort of fair fight.

So he raised a hand, brushing it along the curve of her shoulder. She didn't shy away from the touch but leaned into, though her eyes never left his.

He let his hand trace the line of her collarbone gently, his thumb coming up to stroke her cheek. He could see the shift as she smiled and her eyes closed. Still, he hesitated. Unsure, until her hand came up to clasp his, holding it against her cheek. She took his hand and brought it to the back of her neck, just underneath the upswell of her hair. At the same time her other hand came to rest on his chest.

And, with that, he kissed her.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED

* * *

**Author's Note**

Whelp, looks like I have my work cut out for me. The Princeton Ball, Bruce and Diana snogging on the steps of the Wayne manor, a jealous Andrea Beaumont in the wings. . .and, of course, mild-mannered Clark Kent on the verge of a monumental discovery about our villain Mr. Locke.

*cracks knuckles* I literally cannot wait.

At any rate, I hope you enjoyed this latest installment as much as I enjoyed churning it out. This chapter was a bit of shameless self-gratification in that I got to inject a lot of dialogue from all of our protagonists and script the all-too-familiar sparring scene. I definitely wanted to show that while this Bruce is a version of the Batman we all know and love, he is not a clone. He is more detective and less Bruce Lee. And while he's certainly an expert combatant, he's by no means the best. And I liked the idea of having a non-powered Diana still showing him she can be quite the badass (though, is she really non-powered? *wink nudge wink*)

And the kiss. Definitely not the beginning of picket fences and roses for Bruce and Diana (especially if Andrea has anything to say about it) but I tried to make it fun and romantic and a little bit surprising. Like 'whoa, where did that come from?'

More to come soon. As usually apologies for any errors and I'd love to hear what you guys think. The reviews I get , especially from those of you who consistently give me quality feedback each chapter, never fail to make my day

-C

PS: I've been thinking about posting a re-edited version of the Prodigal (my first Justice League fic) on a website exclusively for JL or Batman fanfiction. Any suggestions?

PPS: I draw. Certainly not at a professional level but it's a pretty significant hobby nonetheless. All this to say that on my Deviantart account, I have a picture of how I envision Bruce and Diana from the 'The Last Laugh'. It is entitled 'Victorian Era Bruce and Diana' and that is the only one that pops up when you enter that title into the search box. Or, just go to the Deviantart link on my profile page, which will take you to my Deviantart profile. Then go to 'browse gallery' and it shouldn't be too far down.


	11. Kryptonite

**Metropolis, USA**

Clark could, on a good day, leap to the highest branch of a mature oak tree without breaking a sweat. Higher, even. It sometimes felt as if he could will away the gravitational pull of the earth.

Of course, that was in bright daylight. There was clearly some kind of solar component to his abilities, and seeing through solid walls was the only one that could reliably manifest when he was out of direct sunlight.

Still, he made the climb, coming to less-than-stellar landing next to Lois on the other side of the fence. He straightened, adjusted his glasses and coat, and tried for a confident smile. "That wasn't so bad now."

Lois just shook her head. "Lead the way, Smallville. Though I'm taking the cost of new shoes and a new skirt out of your paycheck. This junkyard is positively fetid. I'll be burning my entire wardrobe once we return to civilization."

"They call it muckraking for a reason, Lois."

"Not us they don't." Lois scrunched her nose as she stepped daintily over the remains of a rodent carcass. "The Daily Planet does not rake muck. Figuratively or literally."

Clark stifled a laugh. "I will remind you, not for the first time, that you didn't have to come."

She shot him a withering glare. "Walk me through this again, this information source that has us in the world's most foreboding scrapyard in violation of God knows how many ordinances."

"This 'information source' is a very good associate of mine who has provided more than a few critical leads in the past. This lot is where the trail goes cold, and Locke paid a fortune to cover it up."

"I don't follow."

"Locke bought out Dougal. He let the company rot and built this junkyard right where the major wing of the mill used to stand. If you follow the paperwork, it's absolutely inexplicable. Something about this lot was so. . .tainted that he had to hide it under thousands of tons of scrap metal ."

"I wish I could do that to some of my rookie _Planet_ articles," Lois said offhandedly. "But I fail to understand your excitement. How are the two of us going to find this item or document or whatever it is? A needle in a haystack doesn't do the task justice."

Bruce sighed. "Whatever it is, it's big. Big enough be heard for a ten mile radius. And it can cause weather fluctuations."

"What?"

"Twelve years ago. Or something like that. Remember the freak storm that hit around here?"

"No, I was barely a teenager and freak storms seem to be Smallville's specialty."

"This wasn't just any storm, Lois. It obliterated an entire steel mill. The epicenter, which was somewhere around where are currently standing, generated enough heat to melt machinery into the ground and vaporize every droplet of water in the vicinity. Seven people died from that alone."

"And you think this. . .object was behind it?"

"Several people from outlying farms swear they saw a meteor-"

"Something _else_ that Smallville is known for."

He sighed. "That's an investigation for another day. I don't think this was a piece of debris from above the skies. I think it was man-made, and that it was significant enough to Locke for him to bury it under a junkyard years later."

"Fascinating. And again, how do you propose we find it?"

He adjusted his spectacles. "Journalistic intuition."

"Horseshit, farmboy." Lois was not exactly renowned for cleanliness of speech.

"Oh? I'll make you a wager."

Lois frowned, then looked over her shoulder and to the side. As if there were anyone within a mile's radius. "Go on."

"If we do find something extraordinary. Something worth spending a small fortune to cover up. . .you have to agree to a cup of coffee with me. Next Thursday."

Lois was taken aback, but to her credit recovered fairly quickly. "I am your supervisor, Clark."

"And it is just a cup of coffee and half hour of conversation. Hardly a burdensome investment of time and energy."

She crossed her arms thoughtfully. "And if we find nothing within the hour? What do I win?"

"What do you want?"

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Best to choose wisely with an opportunity like this. "If I win, I want you covering the Society pages in addition to your regular duties. Earnest is one of the worst writers I have ever had the misfortune of trying to publish, and I would replace him in an instant if I could find a reporter desperate enough to fill the spot."

"You drive a hard bargain."

"Or I could just transfer you to his section anyway."

And so a deal was forged. Clark, ever the traditionalist, extended a hand which she shook.

"Your hour begins now," Lois reminded him.

"Right." He wasn't really paying attention. Rather, he was focusing on his Vision, searching the mounds of twisted metal for anything out of the ordinary, layer by layer. The job was frustrating because of all the lead that had also accumulated in the lot. Lead which, for some reason, he could not see through.

"Clark, you might as well use your glasses. It's not like you'll see better without them."

Actually, it was. But he figured it was best not to let on how completely unnecessary they were. He pushed them back up to the bridge of his nose and gestured toward the center of the junkyard. "Well, let's find ourselves a needle."

* * *

**The Princeton Manor**

Diana thought she'd made it home without alerting anyone, but clearly, she gave Annabeth too little credit. She was almost in bed, and considered simply feigning sleep. But then the door she'd forgotten to lock burst open and in came Annabeth.

"Diana! Where have you been all day?" Her friend whispered excitedly.

"Umm." She rubbed the back of her neck, searching for an answer. "Errands."

"Errands? Diana, if there was something you needed done, why didn't you just send me. I've been bored out of my mind, dusting the same furniture over and over-" She froze, her eyes widening as she really looked at Diana. "And what in heaven's name are you _wearing_?"

_Wearing? _ Diana looked down, then her head snapped back up. She'd forgotten to change out of Bruce's clothes. Maybe she'd have remembered if weren't for that bloody kiss and its aftermath.

Annabeth sat down, dumbfounded. "Diana, why are you wearing a man's trousers and shirt?"

"I. . .you see, I. . ." She gave up. "I can't tell you."

"Well, did you- did you spend the night with a man? Was it Admiral Trevor?"

"No! No, of course not."

"Then _who_?" Annabeth pressed. "You know my lips are sealed darling."

"I can't say, I'm sorry. You'll have to trust me Annabeth. Nothing happened though, on that you have my word. I remain as pure as the driven snow."

Annabeth seemed incredibly frustrated at being denied a salacious story, but she eventually gave up. "Well then, you'd better get some rest. The Princeton Ball is in less than twenty-four hours and you'll need the day to prepare."

Diana nodded absently. "Right. It shouldn't be too hard seeing as how I'll be masked anyway."

"Until midnight."

"Mmm."

Annabeth frowned. "Honestly, what's the matter? You look so glum and it worries me."

Diana forced a smile. "I had a long day, that's all. And I really am tired. I'll see you in the morning, yes?"

"Of course. Bright and early." Annabeth stood up, hesitantly. She clearly wanted to press further but knew that on this issue Diana would be intractable. "Good night, Diana."

"Good night, Annabeth."

She waited until the door closed to throw herself on her bed, close her eyes, and will herself to sleep. It was impossible, with the scene from earlier that night playing nonstop in her head. A bittersweet memory if there ever was one. . .

* * *

**Two Hours Earlier**

**The Steps of the Wayne Manor**

_And with that, he kissed her._

She hadn't been kissed in quite some time. And even those sparse instances were nothing in comparison. Nothing like this. A whirling tempest of pleasure and joy and curiosity and. . .surprise. Part of her had expected him to pull back at the last moment.

"Mmmm." She barely recognized the throaty purr as her own. Somehow, her right hand had snaked around his neck and pulled him further into the kiss. His thumb stroked her cheek, brushing away the occasion stray wisp of hair. She shivered in delight, her hands running through his hair and the back of his neck. She loved the feel of him. Solid and athletic. His hair soft and wavy in her hands. The near-imperceptible tickle of a day's worth of stubble on his cheeks and jaw. "Oh, Bruce," she heard herself whisper between kisses, her lips brushing his at the words.

He completely encircled her waist in his arms, letting her feel every iota of strength in his frame. "Diana," he said back. Three syllables, simmering with desire and affection. She was in heaven.

And then, suddenly, she was back on earth. He pulled away, holding her at arm's length, his face an unreadable amalgam of emotions.

"Bruce, what is-"

He let go of her, reaching for the railing to steady himself. "This. . .this is a bad idea."

Diana felt her entire body go numb at the words. Except for her lips. Those still tingled with the passion of an interrupted kiss. What was he talking about? "A bad idea?" She repeated.

"Yes. I'm-I'm sorry for kissing you."

"I kissed you back. Do you want me to apologize too?"

"No! No, that's not what I meant."

"Well what did you mean, Bruce? What part of this is a bad idea?"

His jaw clenched, his eyes everywhere but on hers. "We've been thrown together by fate and circumstance, Diana. And I am overjoyed by it. I savor every moment with you, I feel. . ." he stopped to collect himself. "But when all is said and done, I am not a part of your world. And I have no wish to be."

"My world? What are you talking about Bruce?"

He pursed his lips. "Your world. The elite of Gotham, the crest of high society. You were born to it-"

"As were you," she interjected.

"I was. And I shunned it. _All_ of it."

She felt so angry she could hit him. "Including me?"

"I am not what you want, Diana."

"Oh, so you read thoughts now, is that it? You know what I want?"

"I know that if it came down to a choice between your family and a mere detective you've known for a week, you would choose the former in a heartbeat."

Each word was like a knife into a part of her she never knew she needed to protect. "Why are you acting like this, Bruce? You don't know how I feel about you-"

"And I don't want to. Because it will pass. You'll have to go back to your world eventually, Diana."

"Please, Bruce. Please, just shut up about my world. She stepped back, suddenly wanting to put as much distance as possible between them. "I just need to know. . .If that's really how you feel, why did you kiss me?"

"I kissed you because I've wanted to from the moment I saw you-"

She let out a short, sarcastic laugh. "Well, that's a relief." It was a struggle to keep the venom from her voice.

"Would you just listen for a moment? Please?"

She crossed her arms. "Oh, I've heard quite enough for one day."

He took a deep breath, plunging on regardless. "When I was in Japan, I met a man named Ra's Al Ghul. He was a traveler, like myself, in search of his destiny. Like me, had lost someone very close to him. A wife. He had trained with Hassassins, the Samurai, the Shaolin monks. He had become legendary warrior. And he took me under his wing. He trained me."

"I don't have time for this." Diana turned to leave.

"He had a daughter."

Something about the way he said it made her stop on the first step.

"Her name was Talia," Bruce said. "Beautiful, strong, independent, fierce when called for. . .she was like you in many ways. And I loved her."

Her voice caught in her throat. "As much as I would love to hear about your other women, I really must be going." Hadn't he humiliated her enough already?

"She died, Diana. It was not a peaceful death, and I watched it happen. It was the worst-" he stopped himself. "The second worst moment of my life. When I kissed you, I felt the same way I did when I kissed her. Being with you is the same feeling as when I was with her. Nothing even compares, Diana. But I can't allow myself to continue having these feelings because when I do lose you. . ." He trailed off. "I can't go through that again. I won't."

"Coward," Diana said softly.

"Diana-"

"That was a lovely self-fulfilling prophecy, Bruce. I'm sorry for what happened with this Talia woman, whatever it was. But you using it as an excuse is contemptible. Since you seem so hell-bent on dissolving our association after this case, I suppose I will oblige. After we've dealt with Locke, you and I will go back to our 'separate worlds'. Will that make you happy?"

He seemed to shrink at her words. "You're angry."

"And you are not the man I thought you were, Mr. Wayne." She shook her head and continued down the stairs, marveling at how such a beautiful moment could turn so sour

* * *

And, two hours later in her own bed, she wondered the exact same thing. The kiss had been so amazing, but it was almost physically painful to remember because of its direct aftermath. Bruce and his tortured past, damn him. That kiss had been the purest expression of passion and emotion she'd ever witnessed from the enigmatic Mr. Wayne. It was as if for a few brief moments, he'd let himself give in fully to his heart's desire. To her.

Which, it seemed, had frightened him silly. Brilliant, really. A detective unafraid to confront the most powerful criminals in Gotham scared of a kiss_. Bloody brilliant_, she thought bitterly.

_Just go to sleep, Diana_, she told herself.

_Go to sleep. . ._

* * *

**Metropolis, USA**

Lois may have only given him an hour, but she was a fair sport and an active participant in the search. Once she had resigned herself to the fact that her clothes would not survive unscathed, she was willing to turn over debris and search just as well as he. Lanterns would have been ideal, or at least torches. But the moonlight did provide ample illumination and Clark hadn't had to rely on normal light to see since his childhood.

They were almost at the center of the lot with nothing to show for their troubles but scuffed shoes and dirty hands. His Vision was having an especially hard time with all the scrap lead, and it gave him a headache trying to focus on it. It was one of those headaches that kept him from hearing Lois when she first spoke.

He smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry, what were you saying?"

"Bruce Wayne. I did a bit of research on him."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Very sad story, about his parents. I can almost understand why he became a detective."

"Most weren't so understanding," Clark said. "From what I've heard, the Wayne name is a pretty sore subject across the pond. Many of his father's business partners were expecting him to continue on and run the company. Instead, he dissolved it and ran off to India. Or Tibet, or Japan, depending on the rumor. Years of his life simply unaccounted for."

"Why dissolve the company though?" Lois wondered. "Why not let other senior members manage it?"

Clark shrugged. "Who knows. Though I doubt he would have done so without a reason. Perhaps he didn't like the direction they intended to take the company."

Lois nodded thoughtfully. "Is he coming to Metropolis?"

"Well, I certainly hope so. I should be receiving a reply in a few-" He froze.

"Clark? Lois halted too, worry flashing across her face. "Clark, what's the matter?"

"I. . ." He had to be careful. He had just seen something, buried underneath one of the largest scrap heaps. It was buried deep, with about five tons of junk piled atop.

But it was not like the rest. It was a vessel of some sort. A vehicle. Aquiline and smooth. It had a spherical bbody with twin fins jutting out then curving back in like the claws of a praying mantis. Under his vision, the metal practically shone. It was something different altogether.

And it hummed with energy. It panels and circuits. Electrical circuits? Inside the spherical cabin there was a crystal of some sort. He couldn't tell the color, but it gave off energy leylines like crazy-

"What are you staring at, Clark?"

He shook his head. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you?" He wasn't even sure he believed it. What in hell _was_ that thing? How could it have been constructed? And why had Locke found the need to bury it away.

He stepped closer ignoring the buzz at the base of his skull that seemed to grow more insistent the nearer he drew. It was doubtful that he could extract without the aid of direct sunlight. His physical powers weren't particularly impressive at night. Still, maybe a push in the right place and gravity could do most of the work.

Then something happened. It was like an unpleasant heat sensation on his skin at first. Before it got much, much worse. His vision went glassy and his body spasmed so hard that he was thrown to ground. He heard Lois scream his name as he pitched over, but that was the least of his concerns. He couldn't breath. He felt like insides were destroying themselves. Like a drill press was shredding right through his skull. Something about the vessel. It was dangerous.

"Get away!" He wheezed. "Run, Lois!"

"Clark!" She was kneeling next to him, inexplicably unaffected. "Talk to me, dammit! What's going on."

He tried to raise his hand, but his muscles were too weak to keep it aloft. His arm fell back to the ground. Paralysis hit, a numbing sensation that deadened his extremities. He saw his arm, saw the hideous black latticework spreading across his skin.

He was going to die, never knowing how or why.

_Movement_. Lois was dragging him with a strength that surprised him. It was like being rescued from a raging inferno. Every inch he retreated away from that strange vessel, the better he felt. His lungs unclenched, his heart slowly returning to normal. The excruciating pain in his skull lessened and his muscles slowly regained their strength.

As soon as he was well enough to stand up, he did so. Lois, sweaty and out of breath from the exertion of dragging him nearly thirty meters, collapsed into a sitting position on an overturned oven. She eyed him in disbelief as he straightened up and brushed off the seat of his trousers.

"Clark," she gasped, "if you ever scare me like that again I will kill you myself."

He leaned forward, hands on his knees to catch a breath. "That was no act. I felt like I was literally going to die?"

"From what? Old junk?"

"No. Something else. Something else. Something underneath."

She stared at him, dumbfounded. "Clark-"

"Let's just leave, Lois. I'm sorry for wasting your time?"

"So . . .what? We quit? Just like that?"

"There will always be new leads. Just because we hit a dead end-"

"What dead end?" She demanded. "Clark, what happened to you back there. . .I've never seen that before. Never even heard of something like that. Was it a. . .a seizure? Vapors? What?"

"I don't know!" he practically shouted. Then, his voice breaking. "I don't know."

Her face scrunched in a way that he usually found adorable. She was waiting for him to go on.

But he couldn't.

She threw up her hands in exasperation. "Fine. Let's just go wait for our driver." She didn't sound very pleased, so he just nodded mutely and followed her back the way they had come.

The night had been an utter disaster, but he'd learned something very important. If Locke wasn't an absolute priority before, he was now. And his secret had something to do with Clark, as wildly impossible as that seemed. How else to explain Lois's immunity while he lay dying from sheer proximity? Something about that strange vessel had attacked him specifically.

Lois would probably insist that he abandon the entire investigation, if she didn't fire him outright. There was a strong possibility she thought he had faked the reaction. If so. . .it didn't matter. He would be back soon, and he would find a way to unearth the vessel and discover its secrets.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Okay, so this chapter is shorter than my usual update, but also much sooner. I know that the ball itself will take a while to write, but I wanted to give Bruce and Diana and Lois Clark some more screen time as it were in the interim.

Talia and Ra's, btw, will not be major parts of this story. Clearly, Bruce had some interesting history with them both during his time in Asia. And unfortunately for Diana, the relationship issues he picked up falling in love with Talia al Ghul are still very much alive. He's still very clueless when it comes to romance and women, and emotionally inhibited to boot. This chapter was an opportunity to show a bit of that vulnerability, a theme extends even to Clark. Of course, while Bruce's weakness has to do with trust and insecurity, Clark's is a bit more literal (gee, wonder what substance possibly could've done that to him). Guess we'll see how Bruce (and Clark) deal with it.

More to come soon. Please review and let me know what you think.

PS: I've had several people ask in the email or in the reviews if I had any thoughts on who I would want to play these characters in this world. This is actually one of my favorite thought experiments because I love talking about casting choices and various actors' strengths and weaknesses, etc. Especially when it comes to superhero type movies.

So, I posed the question to myself and took it quite seriously. If the Last Laugh were a movie or say a television miniseries, who would I cast to play the roles? Below are the answers I came up with, and it took me a good hour of thinking and refining to make the selections I did. So, if you ever wanted to know which actors I envision playing the characters in the Last Laugh, look below. Agree? Disagree? Feel free to comment on that as well. Apologies for misspelling any celebrity names. . .

**Bruce**: Young Dylan McDermott (Anyone remember the Practice? That's what I try to channel whenever I write Bruce). Runner-up: Michael Fassbender

**Steve Trevor**: Alexander Skarsgard (Only seen him in True Blood and the effed-up movie Straw Dogs, but he's got this cocky, slightly douchebaggish swagger that intimidates the hell out of lesser men. Runner Up: Sean William Scott

**Diana**: Olivia Wilde. Just. . .she's awesome. Beautiful, great actress, strong physique. Runner up: Jessica Biel. Honorable Mention: Eliza Dushku

**Clark Kent**: James Marsden (Liked him as a reporter in 27 Dresses, which is why I picked him. Though I will say that I also liked both Tom Welling and Brandon Routh [the jury's still out on Henry Cavill]. This Clark is supposed to be funny, laid-back, and old-school farmboy charming, which I think Marsden could pull off.) Very Close Runner Up: Mathew Bomer from the excellent show White Collar.

**Cassie Sandsmark**: Amanda Seyfried.

**Lois Lane**: Hilarie Burton. She and Matt Bomer (see _Clark Kent_ ) had excellent chemistry on White Collar, which is part of the reason I like her Lois (especially if in this complete fantasy, Matt Bomer were to play Clark Kent). Her role in the show is also very Lois-esque, as she is a tenacious insurance investigator with a sterling track record and an eye for detail. For those who don't watch the show, she also played Peyton on One Tree Hill. Or so I'm told. Runner Up: Rachel McAdams

**Andrea Beaumont**: Scarlett Johansson. Runner Up: Kristen Bell

**Zatanna**: Marion Cotillard. Runner Up: Cobie Smulders

**Big Barda**: Paula Patton (don't let that sweet smile fool you- she's tall and can let loose a fierce right hook when called for. Watch Mission Impossible Ghost Protocol if you don't believe me)

**Scott Freeman (Mr. Miracle)**: Jim Sturgess

**Zachary Princeton**: Malcolm McDowell. Runner Up: Richard Gere (this would've gone to Liam Neeson but he's already Ra's al Ghul)

**Connor**: Taylor Lautner (as it's not really a speaking role. Lordy but that boy can't act. . .)

**Alfred Pennyworth**: Ben Kingsley

**Leslie Thompkins**: Helen Mirren. Runner Up: Callista Flockhart

**Annabeth**: Amber Heard

**Commissioner Gordon**: Gary Oldman (they got that one spot-on in the movies, imo)

**Cameron Locke**: James Marsters. Runner Up: Willem Dafoe

**Fivel Morrison: **Jason Isaacs (perfect for playing the treacherous lackey to a diabolical villain. . .)

**Eduardo Manuel Carrasco**: Dwayne 'The Rock' Johnson. Runner Up: Jason Mmoa

**Hippolyta**?: Cate Blanchett . . ._But more of that to come later ;)_


	12. The Princeton Ball

They were running for their lives.

Diana first, as she was fastest of the three. Sword brandished, she was able to cut down the few stray guards who had managed to maneuver in front of them. Her strokes were sure and precise, far swifter than the time it took them to aim their clunky weapons. Diana didn't know if the men would die or not. But after what she had witnessed, she didn't much care.

Bruce was right behind her. He carried the most precious cargo of them all, a large leatherbound portfolio which contained what they had come for. Evidence they needed to bring Cameron Locke down once and for all.

Andrea brought up the rear, her Winchester cranking out shots as quickly as she could shoot and load. She was certainly something to behold, her movements so snappy and fluid that it seemed impossible she could maintain any sort of accuracy while running. But her results spoke for themselves. Enemy after enemy went down, bullet holes erupting from their heads and chests.

Still, as preternaturally deadly as Andrea could be with her carbine, it was nothing compared the overwhelming firepower of the Harlequin guards on their tail. They had automatic weaponry and the staccato chatter of their assault rifles was deafening in the night air. It was only a matter of time before their onslaught hit its target out of sheer luck.

The beleaguered trio darted around the corner of the communications tower, which stood adjacent to the compound wall and formed a sort of chokepoint for their attackers to get through. Bruce stopped running and the others wisely followed suit. Bullets kicked up plumes of frozen soil and snow just beyond the makeshift shelter, turning the ground mere feet away into mulch.

Diana felt her stomach begin to heave, her memory fresh with the horrors they had witnessed in the last of the compound's silo facilities. She had known Locke was a monster, but those sights would never cease to haunt her as long as she lived. Assuming she lived very long, which was an increasingly dubious prospect.

She would not show it but she had never been more frightened in her life.

As if he could sense her fear, Bruce looked back and reached for her hand, squeezing it. His hands were as cold as hers so they offered little warmth, but she was glad for the gesture anyway. She squeezed back.

"One way or another, we're going to finish this," Bruce said. He released her hand, not waiting for an answer. Then, suicidally, he dove right in the open. He rolled out of the way of the first wave of bullets, pausing just long enough to raise his cane at their pursuers and depress a stud on the handle. Diana let out a cry of disbelief, wondering what in heaven's name his grappling hook was going to do to help.

But it wasn't a metal claw that launched from the tip of the cane. It was a dart carrying some type of payload. With a muted _phut _it shot out from Bruce's cane with surprising force. The projectile closed the distance to their attackers in less than a second and hit the ground, detonating into a noxious cloud of smoke. Diana watched, still gasping for breath, as the gunmen fell to their knees, choking and writhing on the ground.

"I have 12 more shots left," Andrea informed them as she reloaded the Winchester. "Then this thing becomes little more than a fancy club." Her voice cracked, either from fatigue or desperation. Either was understandable.

"They're regrouping," Bruce said grimly, darting back into cover just in time to avoid being ventilated. "Listen, the plan can still work. You two can still escape. Most of the security personnel are still at the detonation sites and-"

"We aren't going bloody anywhere as long our trigger-happy friends back there can shred us to pieces with their automatic rifles," Diana snapped. In truth, her irritation was from the fact that Bruce had nearly scared her to death with that last stunt. It was a miracle he hadn't died.

"I said you two can still escape," Bruce repeated. His expression almost. . .sad. He took the leather binder and handed it to Diana. "It's in your hands now."

Then, _for a second time_, he darted out from their cover, raised his cane, and fired another smoke pellet.

"What are you-" Diana couldn't even finish the question before he was out in the open. Her eyes widened in horror. Surely it was suicide! Even Bruce Wayne couldn't dodge bullets forever.

She allowed herself to hope for a few precious seconds that he would survive again. That somehow, against all the laws of chance and physics, he would return unscathed.

But then the first bullet hit him. And the second. And the third. The impact flung him off of his feet like a rag doll, his body falling lifelessly to the ground. Diana heard a scream and she didn't know if was hers or Andrea's or both. She dived toward Bruce and grabbed the collar of his stealth suit, dragging him back into cover with all her strength. She forced her eyes away from the holes in the front of his suit. The bullets would have gone right through his heart.

She was vaguely aware of Andrea rushing forward, bending around the corner of the wall just enough to aim her Winchester. Her shots sounded paltry in comparison to the roar of the enemy assault rifles. But the screams of their attackers followed every telltale crack. Andrea had fired ten times without missing.

Of course, it wasn't nearly enough. Andrea spun right back out of sight and knelt down next to Bruce, her eyes searching Diana's. "Is he-"

Diana's eyes welled with tears. "I don't. . .I don't feel a pulse. He's not breathing."

"Damn!" Andrea slammed a fist into the brick. "We're about to be overrun any second now."

"Bruce said stick to the plan."

"Bruce is dead!"

Diana wanted to slap her. Instead, she collected her thoughts and pointed at the still-smoking carbine in Andrea's hands. "You. . .you fired ten rounds. I thought you had 12 left."

The other woman nodded tersely. "I did. Best to save two, under the circumstances."

"Meaning?"

Andrea's mouth was grim line. "We've both seen Locke's handiwork. If it comes to it, we can't let ourselves be taken prisoner. You understand?"

On the other side of the alley, the shouts of their pursuers could be heard. They had made some sort of decision. Diana didn't have to understand the language to know that a flanking maneuver would be coming momentarily.

_Oh, Bruce. We tried. _

Bruce Wayne's open eyes stared into the night, devoid of light or life save the reflected pinpricks of a starlit sky.

* * *

**26 hours earlier**

* * *

Outside the manor, Bruce watched Diana leave, wondering if he had just imagined the conversation that had just taken place. Had he really just told Diana about Ra'as? About Talia? Those were memories which he had vowed never to share with a single soul. And there he was, spilling them to a woman he'd scarcely known for a week.

A woman he was falling for, just like he'd fallen for Talia.

Well, there wasn't much hope of that going anywhere now, was there? The way Diana had looked at him right before turning her back and walking away was about as painful as any number of agonizing experiences his memory could conjure up. He'd lost her, probably for good. And while he'd hoped that fact would make his feelings for her vanish, the sense of loss he felt was staggering.

Numb, physically and emotionally, he made his way back inside. Whatever his feelings, he reminded himself, there was one singular goal and he couldn't lose sight of it.

Andrea was already on the main floor. She'd dressed for bed, in this case another of Bruce's shirts fashioned into a makeshift nightgown. He felt her gaze from the foot of the stairs, so he turned and did his best to school his features into bland congeniality. "Good night, Andrea."

She didn't say anything for a moment as she studied him. "Did something happen out there? With Diana?"

His jaw clenched and he looked away. "Diana is fine, as am I. If you're worried about our mission tomorrow-"

"It's not the mission I'm worried about, Bruce. It's you."

"And I appreciate the concern. But your apprehension is quite misplaced."

Andrea seemed to want to add something else. But she apparently thought better of the idea and gave him a curt nod instead. "Good night to you too, Bruce. I'll see you in the morning."

* * *

**Leslie Thompkins' Home**

James Gordon was no believer in the afterlife or any such thing. He hadn't been around before he was born, so why expect to survive his own death? The whole thing had never mad much sense to him.

So he wasn't as confused as he might have been when he woke up with the clear memory of being certain he would die. No wondering about heaven or hell. No existential panic.

Despite all odds, he hadn't died. Simple as that.

He opened his eyes. He saw an unfamiliar room, lit with a few kerosene lamps. He flexed his hands, gratified when the responded, albeit slowly. He wasn't strong enough to sit up, that much was for certain. But perhaps he could manage a few words.

"Where am I?" A standard question, though coming from his parched and sluggish mouth it sounded like nothing found in the English language. Still, the sound was enough. He heard movement. Voices.

And then, right before he passed out again, two very familiar faces appeared above him.

* * *

**Harlequin Foundation Headquarters**

Meanwhile, Stanley Turner was nowhere near as frightened as he should have been.

It was understandable. Like many, the only thing he knew about Cameron Locke was that the man was rich and that he paid quite well. Indeed, Stanley had been on his payroll for quite some time. As a senior editor at the Gotham Herald, Locke was well aware that Stanley had a fair amount of control over the dissemination of information to the city. Not that he utilized Stanley very often. Yesterday had in fact been the first time in almost a year that the newspaper man had received any orders from Locke.

They had been simple. Photograph Gordon's corpse and report the accidental drowning death in time to make the afternoon edition. That the death was almost surely not an accident did not concern Stanley. For the stipend Locke paid per month, he could turn a blind eye to Jack the bloody Ripper. Indeed, Stanley had set out to follow Locke's instructions almost to their full letter.

_Almost_ being the key operative word. He had printed the story of Gordon's death, of course, even included the corpse's discovery by an unspecified visitor. He could later reveal that good citizen to be himself. True, he should have gone to Gordon's house and photographed the body before the issue hit press, but he saw this as a small matter of timing. More importantly, his lover, a saucy French minx by the name of Giselle, was visiting for the day.

So rather than follow Locke's instructions exactly, Stanley had spent most of the day in the embrace of the enticing Giselle. Even as Carrasco marched him to Locke's private office, a smile touched his lips at the memory of their time together. Well worth a bit of harmless procrastination, even if he was to get some guff from Locke over it.

"In here," said Carrasco, looming over Stanley like a Colossus. Now _there_ was a frightening man. He was immensely relieved when Carrasco did not follow him into Locke's chambers.

"Mr. Turner, please have a seat," came that one-of-a-kind voice. The hideous harmonics of it. . .Stanley would rather hear nails scratching down a chalkboard. He turned around slowly, opening his mouth to give a magnanimous reply.

Which was when he noticed that the room's third occupant. A woman he didn't recognize

She was not sitting. Or standing. She was hanging by the ankles from a length of chain, hoisted over a central chandelier. Her clothes, save the undergarments, were gone. What remained was soaked in blood. Her skin was pale and lifeless. Her face was pulped beyond all recognition, shattered and broken. The mouth was a mess, with rough incisions cut into the corners and slicing all the way back to her jaw. Like a gruesome smile. Her head hung at an awkward angle thanks to the gaping throat wound that hung open to the bone

She was dead. Clearly. And she had died in a great deal of pain.

He stumbled right out of his chair, gazing in shock at the body that hung there, swaying gently some five feet above the ornate carpeted floor. The creak of the chain links as they moved against each other echoed off of the smooth-paneled walls.

He scrambled to his feet and almost fell over again in the process. He reached for the door handle but when he turned it, it would not budge.

"Sit," said Locke quietly, his long, thin fingers crossed together under his chin.

Trembling, Stanley obeyed. He waited for Locke to say something but the other man was silent. So, he ventured a question. "Why have you-what is. . ."he grasped for adequate words. "What is the _meaning_ of this?"

Locke gestured to the swinging cadaver. "This is a corpse. It is the first one you've seen in quite some time, apparently. Which would not have been the case had you followed my orders."

"About Gordon? I was planning on-"

"I don't care what you were _planning_ on, Mr. Turner. I told you to photograph the body of Police Commissioner James Gordon and then to report his untimely demise. You neglected to do the former, and as it turns out, there is no body to photograph."

Stanley gaped at him. "But you said he was dead."

"Indeed." Locke's face twisted like he had just swallowed a bitter pill. "It appears that either my information was incorrect, or that someone else discovered the corpse and absconded with it for reasons unknown. Your incompetence has only compounded the problem. Suspicions will be aroused at the report of a body when in fact there is none to be found. And my plans for Gordon's successor will suffer accordingly as he is assailed with aspersions cast upon his legitimacy."

"But for heaven's sakes, what does this poor woman have to do with any of that?" Stanley exclaimed, somehow emboldened by his sheer terror.

Locke frowned. "You don't recognize her, do you? Go on, look a bit closer, Mr. Turner. Her face, and the rest of her, are rather the worse for wear, but. . ."

"No. . ." Stanley could scarcely more than whisper. He stood and took a step toward the dead woman. What remained of her face barely seemed human, but he recognized the oval birthmark on the right side of her chin.

It was Giselle.

He retched, dry heaving in gasps and spasms while Locke looked on unfazed. The spasms turned to sobs as he realized in one stroke the enormity of his predicament. And Giselle! Poor Giselle!

"She begged to know 'why'," Locke said conversationally as Stanley wept. "At least I think that's what she kept going on about. Not much for English, that one. Though I suppose if I were in such a nasty fix I'd want to know why as well. In reality, she was taking your punishment. Because rest assured, if I didn't consider you more valuable alive than dead, Mr. Turner, that would be you hanging from my chandelier."

Locke snapped his fingers and the door opened. Carrasco stepped in, his face a pitiless mask. "Sir."

Locke gestured to the pathetic figure weeping on the floor. "Get him out of my sight. And have someone clean up this mess. I think Mr. Turner has learned his lesson."

* * *

**The Wayne Manor**

Bruce spent the remainder of the morning preparing Andrea for her reintroduction to Gotham. Luckily, his skills in visual deception were not mere empty boasts. He had the tools for the job. Hair dye for, her distinctive golden hair. His first impulse was brunette, which she immediately mocked.

"If you wanted me to look like your high society girlfriend, why didn't you just say so? Perhaps I could try to sound like her as well. Narrowing her brows and affecting an exaggeratedly formal expression, she said, "Is this more to your liking, sir?" In an equally overblown uppercrust accent.

Bruce shook his head. "That imitation was downright appalling. And somehow, I don't think a change in hair color will turn you into Diana's twin."

"How about red?" suggested Andrea. "I've always wanted red hair.

"It's a more difficult color to apply," Bruce said. And it's the exact opposite of incognito. It draws attention."

"In a good way," she argued. "It distracts. It draws natural curiosity _away _from my true identity. 'I wonder where she's from,' they'll wonder. 'Did he pick her up in Scotland? Or maybe she's a Yank. They do say Mr. Wayne spent several months in America during his travels-'"

"They do?" Bruce interjected, genuinely curious.

She ignored the question. "The point, if we may safely return to it, is that red hair will work just fine for our purposes."

There was more argument, but Bruce lost against her unyielding refusal to consider the black hair coloring. He chalked her steadfastness up to the mysteries of the feminine psyche and with the aid of a proper washbasin and his implements, Andrea was transformed into the reasonable facsimile of a redhead.

Pulling the hair back from her face, she scrutinized her image in the mirror. The change was remarkable. The auburn hair and brows made her seem older somehow. More mature. She wondered if Locke himself would recognize her. Perhaps at a few paces, yes, but then she could kill a man at a much further range than that.

One day, soon, she would. Bruce's approval be damned. His idea of justice was a drawn out trial, complete with sensationalistic newspaper headlines and a _possible_ murder conviction followed by a _possible_ execution. . .rubbish of course. A bullet between those bloodshot, conniving eyes would suit her perfectly.

Bruce, seemingly oblivious to her thoughts, was now tinkering with the makeup brushes. "The change in your coloration is quite impactful. I don't know that much further will be needed to complete your disguise. You've settled on an alias I presume."

"Ruby Romano to you," Andrea answered.

Bruce tried the name out, experimenting a bit. "Very well. . .Ruby. Now, shall we go into town?"

Andrea couldn't resist another Diana impersonation. "Why, Mr. Wayne, I should be delighted to accompany you."

He rolled his eyes. "Your mimicry is as abysmal as ever."

* * *

The ride into town was rather uneventful. To Bruce, it seemed that the universe conspired to keep Diana Princeton on his mind at every turn. How many countless times had he replayed her bitter parting words in his head? Far, far too many. And Andrea was no small distraction for his troubled thoughts. Physically, his attraction to her hadn't diminished in the slightest. Mentally. . .well that worried him even more. She did a good job of concealing her thoughts most of the time, but whenever Locke's name was mentioned there was a hardness there that he recognized all too well. He had seen it in himself, once.

When the time came, he knew she would cross the line. Or try to. He would just have to be there to stop her.

Andrea exited the carriage with Bruce when they reached the telegraph office, but decided to wait outside while he saw to his business. The stuffy building, with its long lines and unhurried attendants, was the sort of place one only entered if necessary. Better, she thought, to enjoy the blue, lightly clouded sky and the surprisingly warm winter air. There were a few other women outside the telegraph office, no doubt the wives of businessmen whose thoughts had run along the same lines as Andrea's. She even thought she recognized one of them. Jacob Montgomery's wife, Anne.

Anne, and the other women, regarded her with thinly veiled curiosity. But not recognition. They were searching their memories, wondering if they had ever seen the newcomer before. And as far as Andrea could tell, they'd convinced themselves they hadn't.

Which suited her just fine. She leaned back against the ugly brick façade behind her, closed her eyes, and summoned to mind the only thing, other than Bruce, that ever brought her happiness these days.

Cameron Locke's dying screams.

"Ruby darling, I'm finished." She was awakened from her contemplations by Bruce's voice. His business apparently hadn't taken as long as she anticipated. And had he just called her 'darling'. The words sent a pleasant sort of chill down her spine, until context and common sense put them in their correct perspective.

She was supposed to be Ruby Romano a lover from distant parts, and Bruce was merely playing the role. It wasn't like he could call her Andrea, was it?

She beamed adoringly up at him. "Let's be on our way then, Brucie."

She heard what sounded suspiciously like stifled giggles from the ladies waiting with them outside the telegraph office.

His jaw twitched, and she found it remarkable that he'd been able to hold back his usual scowl. "Of course," he said through gritted teeth.

Safely ensconsced in the covered carriage, he was still fuming. "_Brucie?_"

"I thought it was adorable."

"You'll pay for that."

He hadn't said it flirtatiously, but Andrea couldn't resist. She leaned over and whispered in his ear, "Is that a promise?"

Bruce, to his credit, didn't rise to the bait this time. "We have one more stop. Try not to make a nuisance of yourself."

Andrea leaned back. "I'm just along for the ride."

* * *

**The Princeton Estate**

Diana hated this part. As Annabeth and several other members of the Daughters of the Amazon applied makeup and readied their costumes, Diana found herself wishing she could float right past the giggles and the gossip and the primping. . .right past the whole affair actually.

Which added to an already-long list of reasons for her to resent Bruce Wayne. Her father's eponymous gala was something she had put countless hours into planning. The Princeton Ball was the social event of the year, outshining even London's Veritas Ball or the grand and fabled birthday celebrations of the Duke of Worcester. Zachary Princeton always liked to delight his guests with some peculiar spectacle or twist on the stuffy English affair. His, year after, was always anything but. The result tended to be sufficiently risqué that before her eighteenth birthday, Diana had never been allowed to attend for the full duration.

All that, the excitement and the romance of it. . .ruined by a sour encounter with Bruce Wayne. Her enthusiasm was long gone thanks to that man, and knowing that she had no choice but to be the smiling, gracious hostess made it all the more frustrating. That kind of subterfuge was not her forte.

Or perhaps it was. She had been practically simmering inside this entire time, and none of her friends had seemed to notice. Cassie, who was still working on configuring Eileen Connell's bright red hair into an elaborate braid, turned to Diana with a mischievous glint in her eye. "So, Diana. Speculative minds inquire. . ."

Diana knew where this was going. If anything, she was surprised her girlfriends had taken so long to broach the subject. She knew if she tried to avoid the subject they would seize on the reaction like hawks on a stray hare. So she forced a smile. "I suppose I have been a little coy, haven't I?"

"I'll say," chirped Priscilla Martin, one of the older Daughters in the group. "Admiral Trevor seems to have fallen a bit hard for you."

"But," Eileen was quick to add, "if you honestly don't want him, rest assured that some of us wouldn't mind picking up the pieces."

Which, despite her mood, elicited a laugh from Diana. "Well, you are some of my closest friends. I suppose I can be candid with you all."

"Yes! Yes you can!" They were quick to assure her. Even Eileen whirled around, disrupting her intricate braid much to Cassie's dismay.

She pictured Steven and felt. . .nothing. Whether that was better or worse than the acute embarrassment and confusion thoughts of Bruce elicited, she couldn't decide. So, clasping her hands together, Diana turned to address her friends. "My feelings for the Admiral are purely platonic, which should be a surprise to no one. I've done little if any to lead him on or encourage his pursuits, which I suspect has only fueled his desire to have me. An unfortunate situation, to be sure. It would be remiss of me not to mention that the woman who does wish to secure his affections has no rivalry with me."

Cassandra, whose jaw had dropped to the floor or thereabouts, managed to pick it up in time to ask the question on everyone's mind. "Well heavens, if even Admiral Trevor can't catch your eye, who _do_ you fancy?"

"No one, at the moment," Diana lied.

"Oh, I don't know about that," Annabeth said.

Diana shot her a glare which her best friend pretended not to see. _Traitor! _

"Do tell!" Eileen exclaimed, her hair all but forgotten.

"Well, this indifference toward Admiral Trevor is awfully coincidental with her time spent in the company of Bruce Wayne," Annabeth remarked.

"Bruce Wayne?" Priscilla wrinkled her nose. "Every time I see him, he's dressed like he's going to a funeral. Black, black, and even darker black. And that creepy office. . .the BatCave! Honestly, Diana, please tell us she's joking."

Cassie seemed to have given the matter a more balanced consideration. "He is handsome, she allowed. And worldly. And mysterious. I imagine that's what our Diana's so fond of."

"I never said I was fond of-" Diana started to interrupt. But Eileen wouldn't even let her have that much.

"You know, I do remember Regina and Aubrey mentioning that you and a handsome gentleman detective paid them a visit. I gathered from that brief scrap of conversation that the man was an agreeable enough sort, so of course I never considered it could be Bruce Wayne.

"My are you behind," clucked Annabeth. Everyone knows Diana hired Bruce Wayne."

"I was in Paris!" protested the auburn-haired girl. "And if my so-called chums kept me abreast of even half the gossip going on here I might not be so dreadfully unaware of the latest goings-ons and-" She fell silent, seeing the melancholy that had come over Diana's features. "Diana?"

Diana tried for a smile. "Forgive me, but the mention of Regina and Aubrey just now. . .my mood has been dampened. I'll be fine, of course. But such as that takes my mind to a much drearier place than it was ever meant to be."

"Oh, forgive our insensitivity" pleaded a contrite Eileen. "Regina and Aubrey aren't even coming tonight on account of what they saw, and here we are gaily going about as though nothing has happened."

"As we should," Diana reminded them. "We can't feel guilty for ever moment of happiness we have, even in the wake of such an awful tragedy."

Eileen nodded solemnly. "What a relief that the fiend is finally in custody."

"Well I think a change of subject is in order," said Annabeth. A true friend, she could see that they'd had enough fun at Diana's expense. Even Annabeth knew about Diana's outburst at the police station. Her friend was none too fond of the swiftly spreading rumor that the man responsible for Gotham's latest string of violence was in custody.

"A temporary reprieve," the less sympathetic Cassie amended. "We'll see how you are when Bruce Wayne shows up escorting that adorable redhead I saw him with this morning."

_Redhead? _For a moment, Diana's eyes shot wide in utter shock. Then the discordant bits of information clicked into place. Andrea of course. And she'd colored her hair to disguise her identity. A morning stroll about town where the watchful eyes of Gotham could see the two together would only reinforce the cover story and serve as a dress rehearsal of sorts. "Was she from out of town?" Diana wanted to know.

Cassie nodded. "Has to be. I've never seen her before, and I would remember. Makes sense I suppose. They say Mr. Wayne has been everywhere from New York to Calcutta. He's probably met all kinds of women, traveling about like that."

Her words brought the Talia that Bruce had spoken of to mind, which stung enough that she just as quickly banished it from her thoughts. "I actually do recall him mentioning a woman he'd been seeing from. . ." Whatever Andrea's ruse, Diana was not privy to it. "Somewhere. London, perhaps. I don't know. And I'm very happy for him."

They all nodded sagely, though whether they believed her was a different matter altogether. At any rate, Diana had some comfort in the fact that Andrea (new auburn locks and all) would not be recognized. Deftly, she managed to turn the conversation to other sources of gossip and interests. All the girls were dying to know how Cassie and Connor were getting along. And while Eileen's date was widely regarded as a dreadful bore, she assured them that her true intentions were to arouse the interests of his older, more attractive, and generally more interesting brother

It was when the other girls became lost in conversation amongst themselves that Annabeth had a moment to speak to Diana privately. "Do you think your mother will be coming this time?"

Diana sighed. "I wouldn't count on it.

* * *

They left eventually to get the final touches of their costumes- the armor and helmets that would add a battle-hardened 'Amazonian' appearance to their Greek-styled togas. A local tailor had been contracted for the job and Zachary Princeton had allowed Diana and her friends the use of his finest carriage to retrieve what they needed. Such generosity did come with a catch- namely that his security personnel would be right back watching her every move. Which was fine, she supposed, until midnight. For the day, she would be on her best behavior.

* * *

Back at the manor, Bruce read the cryptic telegram once more before folding it and placing it in his pocket. He'd known that a trip to the United States was inevitable, but this shortened his timeline considerably.

It was less-than-ideal, the situation that would await him there. From what he gathered, Clark Kent was a mere junior-level journalist. Reading between the lines, it was a safe bet that he had very little support, if any. Locke's connections in America were probably even stronger than they were in Europe. And it wasn't as if Clark had a smoking gun by any means. Though after tonight, if all went well, he would.

Andrea was upstairs, cleaning and precision-checking her Winchester. Bruce, in the study, was putting the final touches on their costumes. Though focus remained on the mission, it was hard not to take pride in his own craftsmanship. They would certainly make quite an impression at the ball.

His thoughts drifted to the one part of the plan that could ruin them before they even began. They needed that key, and stealing it could prove very difficult, if not impossible. That was part of the reason he had made a last stop at Zatanna's on the way back. He hoped he wouldn't need her assistance- that would only serve to center her in Locke's crosshairs. But she was more than eager to help and, given her unique position, could do just that.

Locke's Key. He recalled Diana's laughter at the odd phrasing and nearly lost himself to more minutes of painful reminiscing when he heard the repeated _crack _of gunshots from upstairs. Andrea, of course. He had brought up some sandbags from the toolshed for her to use in her target practice. The sound made him physically recoil every time he heard it, but there were more important things than his comfort right now.

Alfred still hadn't returned, which was odd. He didn't think he needed the butler back just yet, but the impression Alfred gave was that his trip to see Leslie would be brief. If the delay was unintended, he hoped that it meant good news for Gordon's recovery. The Commissioner (alive) was currently the only trump card left to play against Locke.

He checked the time. Four more hours before the ball. Just enough to give their equipment a last efficiency check and get changed into costume.

It was almost time.

* * *

**Metropolis, USA**

* * *

Clark Kent awoke in a cold sweat, literally leaping out of bed. Away from that. . .that thing. The force of his jump was so great that it sent him crashing into the ceiling of his modest flat, then tumbling back down in a jerky, gravity-defying zigzag. Mid-air suspension. . .that one was relatively new. If he hadn't just had roused himself from a horrific nightmare, he might have taken the opportunity to record the details of this unaccustomed ability in his journal.

Of course, he realized, it was just a nightmare. A reliving of that encounter with the strange-looking ship that had nearly killed him. He looked down at his hands more out of reflex than anything, gratified to find that the hideous webs of ruptured blood vessels were relegated to his dream.

_Deep breath, Clark. Deep breath. _

He gave his hands and wrists one last visual inspection, then set about the rest of his day. He would be going back to that junkyard, that was certain. No choice, he told himself as he prepared breakfast. If Lois wouldn't help, then he would find someone else. He had to. Whatever was in that ship seemed to interact in the most unpredictable ways with his own alien biology. Which was why this mystery was suddenly very personal. Whatever Locke was into, it had something to do with him. It could even hold the key to the mystery of his real origins. And these strange abilities.

A loud insistent knocking at the door momentarily diverted his attention. He was instantly on alert. Who could it be at this time of morning. Police? Or more likely, emissaries of Locke? He was pretty sure he and Lois had made it out of the restricted area unseen, but then even his eyesight wasn't infallible.

He looked at the door, then concentrated a bit harder to look right _through_ it. And could barely believe what he was seeing on the other side. Quickly, he swung it wide open.

"Hi Clark," said Lois. She wore a businesslike suit and skirt, though her hair tumbled freely over her shoulders rather than being pulled up into its customary coiffure. Her cheeks and nose were slightly flushed from the cold and her mouth was curled into. . .a smile. She was, in short, breathtaking.

He blinked, at a loss for words to the last person he had expected to see at his house. "What. . ."

"Am I doing here?"

He nodded. "Yes. That. Exactly"

Her smile wavered, making it clear that she hadn't quite considered what she would say when she intruded on his morning. "You know, you um. . .you look different without your glasses, Clark. I almost didn't recognize-"

"Lois." _She_ was actually the one making _him_ impatient. A rather interesting role reversal, he realized.

"I wanted to apologize," she blurted.

"Apologize?" Clark was almost positive he hadn't heard that correctly.

"Yes. Yesterday was a bit frightening for me and the way I reacted to you was uncalled for. Whatever that. . .thing was back there, I believe about what you about what happened. And I want to help you figure out what's going on in that junkyard." She let out a deep breath and by now, it was pretty obvious that the wind wasn't the only thing bringing color to her face.

Clark crossed his arms. "You're not used to giving apologies, are you Lois?"

"Oh I am. Just not to my subordinates." She stressed the last word enough to turn it into a reminder.

"Oh." He laughed despite himself and stepped back. "Well. . .you might as well come in. I was just cooking breakfast. Care to strategize over ham and eggs?"

She stepped inside, her warm smile returning to spectacular effect. It made his heart literally skip a beat. "I would love to," she said.

Clark closed the door after her and darted ahead to tidy up a few things before she came into view of the kitchen. If she noticed his efforts, she didn't comment. Instead, she said. "Still a country boy at heart, I see."

"What makes you say that?" he asked from the kitchen.

She pointed to the table and chair in his living room. Then at the various shelves and mantles on the walls. "Handmade, probably as a set. The table has some imperfections, but by the time you got around to the chairs, your carpentry skills had improved quite a bit.

"Close." He returned from the kitchen with two plates of ham and eggs, sunny side up. The portions were of course half of his normal breakfast but he considered the sacrifice well worth it under the present conditions. "My carpentry skills never improved. My father took one look at the table and decided it would be best if he finished up the chairs."

Lois laughed and accepted the plate he offered her, standing up just to drape her coat over the back of the chair. Within moments they were both seated and enjoying breakfast.

Which, for a bachelor's handiwork, was delicious.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, until she said, "We have to go back."

Clark gave her a wry smile. "I know. Actually, if all goes well, we'll have some help."

"Oh?"

"The British detective. I believe he plans to come here very soon. He's been working on the Locke angle over there, and I'm anxious to compare notes. As a world traveler and respected scholar, I'm also hopeful that he can shed some light on the strange vessel we found."

Lois cocked her head at him. "Can we afford to wait though?"

"I don't see why not. No one knows we were there. And if they've left it undisturbed this long it would be the most highly improbably of coincidences to suddenly go about obscuring evidence now. As far as Cameron Locke or his associates know, that secret is laying safe in a junkyard where it won't be disturbed for decades."

In point of fact, Clark was dead wrong on most counts ( as he would discover a bit later)

"Hmm." Lois clasped her fingers together. "What if you have another episode?"

_Episode. _He winced at the word choice. Although really, how else could someone describe what had happened to him that night? "I intend to keep a very respectable distance this time around."

She said nothing. At first he mistook her silence for contemplation, but then he realized she was studying him. He leaned back, feeling a bit self-conscious at the frank appraisal. "Uh, something on my face?"

"Not on your face, actually. I wasn't speaking hyperbolically when I said you looked like a different person without the glasses." Privately, she thought it was a wonder he needed them at all. His eyes, liquid pools of sky blue, seemed perfectly clear and focused. In her professional estimation, at least.

He tweaked his nose like he always did when he wasn't sure what to say or how to respond. Usually such situations arose when Lois was harassing him about a deadline or in the middle of one of her legendary on-the-spot editorial sessions. That side of Lois he knew how to deal with. Compliments out of the blue were. . .an adjustment. "Um thank you."

One eyebrow rose. "I never said it was a compliment, Mr. Kent." And just like that, Nice Lois was gone.

Clark supposed he didn't mind. He could tell that she was thawing to him, and he was anything if not patient. For now, business as usual would do just fine. "You're right," he said. "Forgive my assumption. Now, would you like to hear more about what I have planned for when the detective arrives?"

* * *

**The Princeton Ball**

Diana walked a wintry path that led to the massive Foundation building which would serve as the venue for the Princeton Ball. She was talking about fashion- the latest in Parisian mode or some such thing. But she was thinking about rooftops. This part of Gotham certainly had some impressive ones, and she could barely look at the towering edifices without imagining grappling up them. Or flying off of them. What a dizzying, fantastical prospect. How could she even feign excitement at the trivialities that once consumed her when in just a few short hours she would embark on a mission to penetrate one of the most remote, heavily guarded location in perhaps all of England. Life and death hanging in the balance. It scared her.

It thrilled her. Her smile when she met her escort, a dashing Admiral Trevor, was not for him. It was for herself. She would be doing something that _mattered_.

"Diana," Steven exulted when she drew near enough. She dutifully extended a hand, which he kissed before taking her arm and leading her away from her fellow 'Amazons'. Most of their dates, already waiting outside the building's front door, were doing the same.

"Hello Steven," she said. "I hope we didn't arrive too late. It took some of us longer than expected to get ready."

"Well, you have nothing to fear," he told her as they approached the front entrance. "Anyone disposed to take issue with your fashionable lateness will be instantly disarmed by your beauty and grace."

She rewarded him with another smile for the compliment and let him usher her indoors. One couple was allowed through at a time, where they would immediately find themselves in a curtained section. Here there were two guards charged with collecting tickets and verifying identities. Afterward, masks could be donned and the faces behind them remained, in theory, a secret to the other guests.

This process went tidily for Diana and Steven. She shrugged off her fur overcoat, providing her escort with a first look at her in full costume.

"By Jove," was all the smitten Admiral could whisper.

Her finely-crafted toga draped naturally over her athletic form as though she'd been born with it. There was a metal breastplate fitted over the soft material, and she wore silver gauntlets as well as a silver tiara which kept back her long, flowing hair like a dam. The tiara had a fold-down mask which wouldn't really disguise her identity from any but the most cursory of glances. . .but it looked great. Diamonds studded the outer rim, like stars following the regal curve of her cheekbones.

It would do, she thought. The diamonds were a bit much and the reflected light played hell with her peripheral vision. Nonetheless, she would only have to wear it for a few hours. Then it could tossed into the Gotham River for all anyone cared.

She turned to her escort, who was preparing his own costume. He looked every bit the part of Heracles in his brass armor, which left his muscular arms bare. The mock sword at his side added a rakish flair but it was the mask, fashioned to appear as if it had been tooled from the carcass of a mighty lion, that completed the outfit.

"The Nemean Lion," she said approvingly.

He grinned at her. "Mythology wasn't my first choice as a theme, but I figured I would make the most of it." He offered his arm again. "Shall we."

"Let's." Diana took his arm and they walked together out of the security booth and into the main part of the building.

"My mother would be aghast at the impropriety of it all," Steven remarked as he led her to the main ballroom. "Dressed like hooligans and not even a segregated ladies changing room. He tutted primly in what Diana assumed was an imitation of his mother.

"You might be dressed like a hooligan, but I shall have to part with you there. My attire is above reproach."

"Nothing is above reproach when you're wearing it," Steven whispered in her ear right before they entered.

* * *

At a normal ball, the orchestra would stopped so that the arrival of the host's daughter and her escort could be announced. Of course, this was no normal ball, and the etiquette that had evolved into Zachary Princeton's annual affair dictated that care be given to preserve the illusion of anonymity. Names, if used at all, were to said privately and quietly. At least until midnight.

So Diana's entry went relatively unnoticed, save for the gaggle of Navy boys who were waiting for the Admiral's arrival. They were all variations on the Grecian warrior them, out of deference to their superior. Though Diana would have recognized the cocky swagger and overconfident poses regardless.

They came, and her hand was kissed enough times that she almost wanted to cut it off and throw it into crowd, where every nearby gentleman would descend upon it like hounds on a fresh steak. At least there were no personal introductions, which suited Diana just fine. They were distractions. Not what she was here for.

"Look, there's Bruce Wayne," laughed Steven. His prior conversation had sailed right past Diana but hearing the name that had been on her mind all day locked her attention squarely back on her escort. She stiffened, her heart racing furiously as she suddenly had no idea how she was going to act when she did see Bruce. Somewhere, what felt like millennia ago, she had actually planned out how she was going to handle things. Gracious, poised, and unaffected. It felt like all of that was now flying out of a very high and gusty window. And here was Steven, pointing right at-

A man who was _not_ Bruce. She released the breath she'd been holding and suffered through a few painful seconds of complete and utter mystification before it dawned on her. The man, was (poorly) dressed as a stereotypical buffoonish detective. The ill-fitting clothes, rumpled appearance, comically bulbous rubber nose, and oversized magnifying glass certainly invited laughter. Steven had merely been making fun of Bruce.

She realized he was watching her, gauging her reaction to the joke. She forced a smile she didn't feel and said. "The resemblance is uncanny."

All of Steven's friends laughed while Steven wondered aloud, "Do you suppose the penniless bastard had the nerve to show up here after all?"

Once again, Diana felt his attention on her. She shrugged. "I don't see why not. Few would miss the opportunity to attend my father's ball, and he _was_ granted an invitation."

Steven nodded. "Ah, that's right. I remember Your father had to bribe him with the invitation to keep him away from you."

Her eyes narrowed, though Steven was saved from a corrective tongue-lashing by the arrival of the rest of the 'Amazons'. Some of his fellow officers had escorts among the bunch and so attention was finally shifted away from Diana and the subject of Bruce Wayne.

Her eyes searched the large ballroom, looking for any sign of Bruce. She wanted to spot him well before they actually spoke, if only to maintain some degree of composure. Of tall, handsome gentlemen the room had no lack. But none with Bruce's particular bearing. Was he really this late?

"Diana," Steven said exuberantly, taking her hand. "I think I see some of my Harlequin Foundation liaisons over there by the far exit. Come, I'll let them get a look at you before the introductions at midnight."

She gently withdrew her hand. "Tempting as that is, Steven, I'm really rather famished. You go have fun and I will enjoy the refreshment room for a spell.

He nodded. An acceptable reason for declining, he supposed. "I shouldn't be long. The orchestra's still warming up, but I have it on good authority that a few my favorite waltzes are coming up. He smiled broadly. I also have it on good authority that your dance card is as yet unspoken for."

"Odd," Diana, said, "considering the half dozen young men I just met."

"Oh, I warned them off days ago," he told her. "I intend to have you all to myself this evening."

She tried to hide her distaste. "Well, it appears you are uncontested for top billing on my card."

"More than that, I hope." He kissed her hand and turned to leave in search of his colleagues. Though Diana had used hunger as an excuse to avoid more time with Steven than necessary, she found that her stomach did seem a bit unsettled for lack of sustenance. Perhaps a few biscuits or cracker-bonbons would do the trick. There were sure to be some left. Most of the girls avoided the refreshment room like a bad infection to avoid the appearance of gluttony or overeating. Also, with food and drink prohibited in the ballroom proper, time spent indulging in either represented any number of missed social opportunities on the dance floor.

Diana suffered from no such inhibitions. She could care less about catching the eye of some duke or earl, and the heavy, blaring polka rendition that now filled the ballroom made her want to seal herself in the adjacent refreshment room for the rest of the night. Before stepping inside, she saw Annabeth, Cassie, Eileen, and some of her other friends dancing gaily without a care in the world. She almost envied them.

She closed the door behind her, taking in the delicious aroma of tea, pastries, and sweets. Even if nobody used the refreshment room, her father took care to have a selection of the highest quality.

She turned around and realized that the room was a bit more crowded than she had first surmised. There stood a man and a woman looking at her. She recognized them both at the exact same time that Bruce said, "Diana."

She didn't reply. He looked good. Very, very good in a black mask that concealed the upper half of his face and swept back to two pointed peaks on either side of his head. The ebony cape made his broad shoulders even broader, and the similarly hued ensemble he wore underneath made him seem almost like a creature of the night. She was reminded of the aristocratic Lord Ruthven in _The Vampyre_ (her father had forbidden such literature as gothic horror for his young daughter, but insatiable minds. . .)

Her gaze swung to the red-haired woman she'd heard so much about. The red-haired woman who was, of course, none other than Andrea herself. Her mask was similar to Bruce's, save for the skull-like design and sharp, downward curves on either side that framed her face. The outfit was similarly simple in construction. She wore a black bodysuit of some sort over which a gray, hooded cape and gray skirt completed the costume. Both the skirt and cape were tattered, as though she had just risen from the underworld. Haunting and beautiful, in Diana's honest opinion.

All of this she processed quickly enough to immediately respond, "Bruce, Andrea, I was wondering whether you'd ever show up." And to wit! Not so much as a waver in her voice, she thought proudly. It helped that she wasn't alone with Bruce and for once, she was actually glad for Andrea as a buffer between them.

"We've been here for over an hour," Andrea informed her breezily as she finished the last remains of a sweet biscuit.

"Right. Of course."

"Have you seen Locke?" Bruce wanted to know. No pleasantries or even a standard compliment on her costume, not that she was expecting anything from him of course.

Diana shook her head. "I haven't, but he's sure to be here. Steven mentioned that several of his contacts with the Harlequin Foundation were in attendance."

Bruce pursed his lips in thought for a moment. "The original plan has been modified somewhat. I think I may have an easier way to get that key from Locke. With a little help of course. However, I need to make sure that Locke stays for the duration of the evening."

"How are you going to do that?"

"I'm not. You are."

"Bruce-"

"Diana," he said impatiently, "you have been introduced to Locke on multiple occasions, and he is an associate of both your father and your. . .escort." He said 'escort' like it was something he'd found laying eggs in a damp cellar. "All I need you to do is make sure he doesn't leave. Surely someone of your social graces-"

Diana let out a short, sarcastic laugh. "Flattery will get you nowhere. My strings are a bit harder to pull than that."

His eyes hardened. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Andrea cleared her throat, momentarily distracting them both. "I'm going to head out to the dance floor," she announced. "Bruce, would you care to dance?"

"In a moment," he said distractedly.

Andrea looked back and forth between the room's two other occupants, her brow raised speculatively. "Well, my dance card certainly has no shortage of names." She took out the actual card and peered at it, "Let's see here. . .this Kevin Conroy seems like a nice fellow. Even left his actual name. I suppose I'll dance a few rounds with him then."

They both looked at her expectantly, anxious to continue the rapidly-heating conversation without an audience.

"Right. Don't eat all the bon-bons!" Andrea gave Bruce a lingering parting glance just before slipping outside.

Bruce immediately turned on Diana. "Is this what I can expect from now on? Petty sniping over even the most trivial orders?"

"Orders?" she demanded incredulously, chin coming up by reflex. "Just who in the hell do you think you are."

She had a way of screaming without raising her voice that would have fascinated Bruce had he not been the object of her ire. Frustrated (and a bit embarrassed at his idiotic word choice) he threw up his hands and stepped back. "I think we both know what this is really about."

"Oh _do_ we? Well please, Mr. Wayne, explain it to me." The words dripped with sarcasm. And a challenge.

Which he took. "You're acting childish and petty because you can't accept that I rejected your advances. You did it last night and you're doing it now and I dearly hope you don't intend to continue because in case you haven't noticed, we are waging _war_ on one of the powerful men in Europe!"

Diana wanted to slap him so hard he forgot his own bloody name. Even if he was partly right, actually voicing it was a show of disrespect far beyond the pale. If the last night had felt like a knife through her heart, this was a vicious twist of the blade. She stepped forward, and Bruce actually retreated, right into the back wall. She jabbed a finger right into his chest and said. "Don't you ever say or imply that I am not completely committed to bringing Locke to justice. You may have forgotten what I've lost but I haven't. Andrea and I both." She was breathing heavily now, her eyes daring him to contradict her.

"Diana-"

"Don't speak!"

So he kissed her. Impulsively, irrationally brushed his lips across hers. _What are you thinking!_ his mind screamed.

Then his mind went silent as she kissed him back for the second time. She shoved him against the wall with unbelievable strength and wound her fingers in the fold of his cloak and pulled his head down to hers. The Amazon warrior and the Creature of Night. The seconds felt like hours. Mindless confusion and anger and desire rolled into one.

She broke off the kiss shoving him once more into the wall. Something in his shoulder groaned in protest. There would be bruises without a doubt. She stood there, her hair mussed and her breath ragged and she was the most beautiful sight he had ever laid eyes on.

The silence was deafening. Nothing but the dull, muted sounds of the merriment going on outside. Bruce hadn't the slightest idea what to do next. What _had_ he been thinking? Surely, he had to say something to dispel-

"Don't speak," Diana repeated, her voice little more than a whisper. She methodically ran the back of her hand across her mouth, as if erasing his lingering essence from her lips. She looked no less angry than she had before, despite the fact that mere seconds ago she had been kissing him like her life depended on it.

"That will never happen again," she told Bruce, her breathing once more even and controlled.

"Diana-"

"I'm going to go out there," she continued. "And I will do my best make sure that Locke doesn't leave."

Which was exactly what he'd wanted to hear in the first place. . .but not like this. Her voice was so cold and clinical. Detached. It was like she was speaking to a complete and utter stranger. If possible, it felt worse than her departure the previous night

Diana backed away. "I'll see you soon, Bruce. Enjoy the party." She reached up and brought her mask back down. Then she flicked the door's latch down and stepped outside into the revelry of the Princeton Ball

* * *

**Leslie Thompkins' Home**

Gordon awoke for a second time and managed to keep his cool. Right before the last blackout, he distinctly remembered seeing Alfred Pennyworth and Dr. Leslie Thompkins. The latter wasn't a surprise- she was a neighbor and one of his last thoughts before succumbing to the poison had been to reach her. Though Alfred was more of an acquaintance than a friend he supposed he shouldn't have been surprised to see him either. The pairing seemed like such a natural choice after all.

"Slight euphoria due to the chemicals used to counteract cerebral impairment. Speech slurred but audible. Pupils properly dilated. . ."

That was Leslie, speaking and beginning to come into focus. He had no idea what she was talking about, nor any clue how to respond. It took him a few seconds to realize that she was talking to herself. And waving her finger for some reason. A scolding? His head hurt. And he was afraid. What if he went back under, only to never awaken again?

"Ocular motility limited. Possible muscle dysfunction of the exteraocular. . ."

His mouth felt like cotton. Darkness was beginning to creep back at the edges of his consciousness.

"Possible saccadic dysfunction. . ."

His eyes zoomed in on her finger, which she seemed to be waving in front of his face in a demented figure eight. He followed the bizarre motion before blurting out. "What the hell are you doing?"

Leslie practically shrieked for joy. "Commissioner! My god I can't-"

He tried to raise his head again, this time actually getting it to move. She immediately stopped this with a finger on his forehead, which in his weakened state was more than enough. "No moving. I don't want you losing consciousness again."

Gordon could be a stubborn cuss, but even he wasn't willing to risk undoing the progress he'd made in the last 30 seconds. Luckily, he was in good hands. The doctor had a cup of water available before he could even verbalize the need. She propped him up on the couch and gave him another liquid, a green, bitter concoction that nonetheless helped to dissipate the fog in his mind. Finally, when his vocal cords were strong enough he spoke.

"Leslie, does anyone else know I'm alive? Other than Alfred?"

She sat down across from him in the rocking chair, her physician's eye still scanning for any sign of residual damage. "I don't know if he told Bruce, but he's no fool. Clearly the fewer people that know something like this, the better."

"It was no accident," Gordon said. "The Joker shot me full of some kind of poison. . ."

Leslie nodded. "Nasty stuff. Most men wouldn't have made it two feet, let alone outside the house and to a neighbor's. By any even reckoning, you should be dead. I'm sure that's what Locke was counting on when he sent his assassin."

Gordon smiled weakly. "I'm glad someone's been on the ball. I worried that no one in this town still left alive had an inkling of what was going on."

"Bruce and Alfred seem to be making progress, collecting enough evidence to take down Locke," Leslie told him. She purposely omitted Diana's involvement, knowing that Gordon and Zachary Princeton were well-acquainted.

"Well then, there's something else you need to know."

"Oh?" Leslie leaned forward curious."

"The Joker isn't Locke's assassin," Gordon said gravely. "Locke _is_ the Joker."

* * *

**Home of Clark Kent**

With dishes long since cleared away, Clark and Lois found themselves working into the afternoon just comparing notes from the various news articles that Clark had collected relating to the original meteor incident. She was a good foil to his enthusiasm. More measured and cautious. She caught things that he had overlooked. Most of them were small. Informational dead-ends.

But there was one connection she had teased out which impressed him. He'd certainly missed it, being drawn toward the broad strokes of the narrative. The conspiracy theories, the sudden, inexplicable influence of Cameron Locke on the scene. The corporate takeovers, like dominoes.

Lois worked a bit more methodically. And she was more familiar with Metropolis' seedy underbelly. She saw the name Falcone once and it was suspicious. Twice, more so. Three times and it was like the Liberty Bell ringing.

Clark arched an eyebrow as she showed him what appeared at first inconsequential details. "A tavern fire?"

"A _Falcone_ tavern fire. You know who the Falcones are, I presume?"

"Mobsters. One of the New York Five, right?" He was still confused why they were discussing this at all.

"Well, the patriarch is, yes. Carmine Falcone sits on the Mafia's head council in New York."

"Whoa. The_ mafia_? How did we end up-"

"A temporary sidetrack," Lois promised. The mafia is not active in Metropolis. Yet. Moreso Chicago and New York. This isn't to say they didn't try to carve out a piece of Metropolis. I'm sure you remember Scarlett Sunday and the turf wars that set off when Falcone attempted to muscle out some of the local ruffians."

"Vaguely. Understand, this was all 'big city' news at the time for me.."

"Well, _Smallville_, Falcone lost that round fairly badly. Somehow, all the competing syndicates already here were able to make a concerted effort to push the Mafia out. Falcone was a stubborn bastard but then one Sunday morning, he walked outside to find his wife, Scarlett, nailed down in his front yard through her hands and feet, bleeding out onto the grass."

"Scarlett Sunday," Clark mused. He hadn't actually known why one of Metropolis' more brutal episods was thus named. The nails as a torture method. . .the M.O. sounded familiar. "Any other distinctive wounds?" he asked, unable to remember the specifics of the incident.

Lois shrugged. Falcone had the body removed immediately and a closed casket funeral was held in New York. He came back to Metropolis some seven or eight years later, but has kept a pretty low profile. The few people who did get a good look at the body are completely inconsistent. Some say the head was missing. Or the eyes. Naked, clothed. You know how details evolve in sensational cases like that."

Clark nodded, wishing this conversation didn't share such a close proximity with breakfast. "What about mutilation of the mouth?"

"Could be. Like I said, there were all sorts of rumors flying around, according to some of the editors I used to know. Something like that I would have to consider apocryphal. Why?"

"Just speculating." Clark said. "I think I want to talk to this Falcone though."

"Who, Carmine?" Lois made a face somewhere between confusion and horror before bursting out into laughter. "Clark, the things you say sometimes. . ."

He laughed because it came rather naturally, especially when precipitated by a beautiful woman. And he did like her laugh. Kind of nasally but not in a bad way. Just enough to give it character. He let it taper out before saying, "I'm quite serious Lois."

She gave another laugh, this one more forced. "No you're not."

"Yes, I am."

"Clark-"

"I'm a journalist," he said nonchalantly. "It's what we do."

Falcone is serious business," Lois snapped. "You show up unannounced asking about his dead wife and you will wind up at the bottom of the river. It's suicide, Clark!"

"I'd bet my life it isn't." he riposted, eyes twinkling.

Lois was already shaking her head. "I can't make sport of this Clark, this is serious. This is deadly serious. Falcone will not think twice about killing you. He may not have the influence he once had here, but that doesn't mean he is not dangerous."

"I'll manage."

"No, _we'll_ manage," she corrected, scooting back from the table. "Dammit."

* * *

**The Princeton Ball**

_I think I rather enjoy this_, Andrea thought as she finally stepped back from the dance floor. The last three waltzes had been genuine fun, and she was pleasantly surprised to find that her prowess on the hardwood had not diminished. Of course, her choice of partners could use some improvement. And she had one man in mind for the job.

She found him talking to a woman and a man. The woman she recognized as Zatanna, somehow managing to appear scandalous even at an event such as the Princeton Ball. She was ravishing of course in her top hat,suit jacket, cumberbund, and fishnet stockings. Andrea would have been jealous if it wasn't clear that Zatanna already had a companion.

"Darling," she purred when Bruce noticed her approach. She slipped her arms around his waist and asked. "Who are your friends?"

Zatanna's mouth quirked up into a smile. "You were right Bruce. She's almost unrecognizable. Very devoted to character too."

"Indeed," Bruce said. "It's alright Andrea, Mr. Constantine here can be trusted."

The rumpled –looking man at Zatanna's side nodded. He was handsome enough, or would be with a shower and a shave and appropriate attire that actually fit. He gave a curt nod to acknowledge her attention. "John Constantine. Friend of Z's here."

Andrea knew she wouldn't remember the name in a few minutes but smiled anyway and said, "Pleasure to meet you." Then, to Zatanna as well, "You don't mind if I steal Bruce, do you? I promise I'll bring him back."

Zatanna shrugged. "We were just finishing up. Should be an interesting evening." A sigh. "Even if my escort refuses to go near the dance floor."

The rumpled man whose name Andrea had already forgotten arched an eyebrow lazily. "Not a chance in hell, Z." Then he turned to Bruce, his expression suddenly becoming sober. "Be careful around that Locke fellow. There's something. . .wrong about him."

"Oh, I would concur with that," Bruce said.

Constantine, whose name he remembered, shook his head. "Beyond the obvious. I can't imagine what it is, but that man seems more like an intruder to this realm than a part of it."

Both sets of eyes turned to Zatanna, who shrugged. "John here can be rather perceptive in his own way. I certainly don't know what the hell he's talking about though." She smiled and jabbed him in the side. "Stop frightening my friends, you daft Yank."

Constantine shrugged. "Thought you should know."

"Right. . ." Bruce murmured, already putting the bizarre statement from his mind. He and Andrea left the odd couple, she dragging him by the hand until they were squarely on the dance floor with the odd conversation all but forgotten. It was the middle of a song but Bruce was quick to maneuver them into place. From the reluctance etched across his face, she worried that he wouldn't remember the steps. A few seconds was all it took to disabuse her of that notion. He led with as sure a foot as she had ever seen. Impressed, she moved closer, her body able to respond organically to his movement.

She could feel the attention. The eyes that began to focus on the newcomers who danced so well. She didn't mind. She loved it, actually. Andrea Beaumont was a fugitive and a murder witness, but this persona that she had created for tonight was free of such tragic burdens. She was free to pretend, if only for a few precious moments, that things were simple. Uncomplicated. She loved it. And she loved Bruce for it.

"You're very good at this," she said as he swung her to the outer perimeter of the floor. "A lady appreciates a competent partner."

"I did learn a few things in my day," Bruce said modestly. "I'm actually surprised that I've retained this much."

"Not a very useful skill for a private detective," Andrea said.

"Well tonight it is." Breaking the dance's conventions, he twirled them so that their positions were reversed. From his former perspective, she realized that she had a clear view of Cameron Locke.

Then the view was gone as he led them back toward the center and fell back into step. "Your face just now," he observed.

"My face?"

"Your. . .expression. The same one that you get whenever Locke or the Joker are mentioned. It's. . .frightening."

"It shouldn't be," she told him, looking him straight in the eye. "Unless you have some kind of _sympathy_ for that evil, soulless bastard. "

"No, it's not him I worry about. It's you. Diana and I both."

Holding her as close as he was, he could feel the moment her head drooped onto his chest and her shoulders started to tremble. The first panicked thought was that she was crying. A very bad possibility. Bruce would rather fight the entire League of Shadows than attempt to comfort a crying woman.

She was not crying. When she looked back up at him, he saw that she was stifling a riotous laugh. "Diana hasn't worried a whit about me since we were children, if then."

"She considers you a part of this team as much as I do, and she knows we need you. Not half-cocked, but calm and collected."

Andrea said nothing for a moment. Then. "She confessed her love to you, didn't she?"

"What? No!" Bruce sputtered a bit too loudly, attracting the curious eyes of one of the nearby couples. Then, softer, "What are you talking ab-"

"No, not her style," mused Andrea. "I'd wager something more impulsive. A kiss! Don't deny it Bruce, it's written all over your face."

"It's also none of your business."

"I merely point out that if you're interested in the proper functioning of this 'team', you might want to look closer at the raging lover's spat you have going on with Diana rather than analyze every little expression I make."

Bruce's eye twitched at her words, but he managed to maintain an unaffected expression even as he twirled her into an expert dip. "Don't worry about me, or Diana," he finally said as the intricate movement reached its nadir. "But I will be keeping an eye on you, Andrea. I will not let you kill in cold blood."

She smiled. "You'd better mean that. Because if I get the chance, I will rip his heart out and dance on his grave, with your blessing or without."

Bruce gave a humorless smile. "Well, when that day comes, things will get very interesting indeed."

* * *

For Diana, the third time meeting Locke was even more unpleasant than the last two, if such a thing were possible. He wore no mask or costume, merely a black gentleman's suit and purple boutonniere His hair was slicked back from a sharp widow's peak and his bony fingers were encased in white linen gloves that seemed to make him even more lifeless. His kiss on her hand felt like the touch of a dead thing.

Perhaps what so irritated her was the fact that everyone else in their company, most especially Steven, were in his thrall. As Cameron Locke talked about the many accomplishments of his Harlequin Foundation, she couldn't resist an appraisal of the others with her. Steven and his friends, even some of hers, were practically spellbound. They laughed where appropriate and never took their eyes off of the charismatic Mr. Locke.

Charismatic. Was that the right word? Diana was beginning to realize it was. While Locke's presence elicited nothing but disgust from the bottom of her soul, that bloodcurdling voice of his did command a certain kind of attention. And he was a gifted conversationalist. She watched in gape-jawed amazement as one of the naval officers' dates actually blushed when Locke complimented her.

"I notice you haven't said much, my dear." Locke, of course, his attentions focused squarely on her. "Admiral Trevor, your escort seems to be lost in a world of her own. I wonder which of us she finds so dull."

Steven laughed nervously. "Certainly not you sir." His voice took on a keen edge. "Isn't that right, Diana."

She gave a self-deprecatory smile. "Oh, certainly not."

Locke nodded slowly. "I suppose it's understandable, what with the recent spate of murders in this city. Especially considering your close relationships with the victims."

Watching the man personally responsible for killing her friends talk about their deaths with such false sincerity was . . .vile. Diana replied through a clenched jaw, "Indeed. But I'm quite sure the culprit will be caught. And punished."

Steven gave her a curious look. "What are you talking about, darling? They've already arrested the man-"

Locke cut him off. "Diana here doesn't believe our new Commissioner has the actual perpetrator. Is that about the size of it?"

Diana gave a thin smile. "It is."

"Fascinating. Tell me, what is it about a full confession, signed and witness, that troubles you so? Today should be a happy one for Gotham."

"A confession that is both highly and clearly coerced. That our new Commissioner has seen fit to shutter all further inquiry on the matter says far more about his suitability than it does the nature of this case."

No one else dared speak. They were waiting for Locke's riposte in what had quickly become a two-person conversation.

Locke gave a condescending smile. "The blind certainties of youth are something to behold. I think you will find, Ms. Princeton, that not only is this world queerer than you suppose, but it is queerer than you can suppose." He turned to the rest of their gathered audience. At any rate, I'm sure the lovely Diana will grow more lively as the night progresses. As for me, I'd best be on my way."

"So soon?" Diana asked, trying to keep the alarm she felt from her voice. Locke absolutely could not leave. Not yet, at any rate. "Why not stay to enjoy the rest of the ball? I hear my father has a smashing surprise in store."

"Oh, I'm sure he does. Right now is a rather critical junction for the Harlequin Foundation however, and I'm afraid that other matters require my attention."

Diana realized belatedly any attempt she made to keep him from leaving would be pathetically transparent. She stood there, speechless while her mind raced.

And then, Locke was intrigued all over again. He looked up, clearly having halted his plans to leave. He wasn't focused on Diana, however. He was looking at someone behind her.

"Bruce Wayne, I presume. What a pleasure it is to finally meet you."

* * *

Bruce and Andrea stepped around from either side of her, converging between her and Locke like dark specters moving through the mortal realm. Even the proud Admiral Trevor took an involuntary step backward. He was having trouble reconciling the commanding figure before him with the pathetic image of Bruce Wayne he harbored in his mind. He was finding it even more difficult to discern why Bruce Wayne, of all people would accompanied by the only woman at the Princeton Ball who rivaled Diana in terms of sheer beauty. She looked familiar somehow, though he was certain he would have remembered such a stunning red-haired maiden. His memory tended to be keen about such matters.

"Cameron Locke," Bruce Wayne replied. "You're the first person who has recognized me all night.

Locke's thin-lipped smile grew. "It was your companion I recognized, actually."

_What! _Diana's heart leapt into her throat in a moment of utter panic. If Locke actually recognized. . .

"I've heard reports of this. . .exquisite creature all day," Locke continued. "Accompanied by the great Bruce Wayne. Once I saw your escort, I knew she could be none other."

Bruce felt the tension drain from him even as he fought to maintain an impassive face. "Allow me, then, to introduce Ruby Romano."

"A pleasure," Locke said. "The name sounds familiar. Do you have any sisters?"

"Seven. Though I'm rather inclined to consider myself unique amongst the lot," Andrea effortlessly lied.

"Your sisters should consider themselves lucky to be blessed with even a portion of your beauty." Locke said.

"A risky blessing. I could be horribly scarred underneath this mask."

Bruce didn't miss the way Locke's mouth twisted into miniature smile. The first genuine smile he had seen from Locke all night. For that fraction of a second, it was like the other man was privy to some macabre joke whose humor only he understood. The moment sent a chill crawling along the back of his spine.

Locke laughed politely along with the gathered men at Andrea's joke, then turned back to Bruce. "I've been meaning to make your acquaintance for some time now actually, Mr. Wayne."

Diana slowly withdrew herself from the conversation as the two talked. This was Bruce's show now, and more than anything she was relieved to be out of Locke's company. He always seemed to know more than he let on, as if nothing could remain hidden from him for very long. Diana was confident that this was simply an illusion he projected. But it was a very unnerving illusion when keeping secrets from Locke and the Harlequin Foundation was literally a matter of life and death.

She wondered fleetingly how long Bruce would be occupied with Locke, but then she felt a hand on her should._ Not long apparently. _

She started to turn around. "Bruce, I'm sorry but-"

"Bruce?" Zachary Princeton asked. "Now why does that name sound familiar."

She averted her eyes to suppress a furious blush. "Father. I'm sorry, I- that is. . ."

Her father spared her further embarrassment by smoothly changing the subject. "Are you enjoying yourself, my dear?"

Her eyes flickered toward Bruce unbidden. "For the most part."

Zachary's eyes hardened, naturally assuming that Diana was referring to Locke. "Has he done _anything_-"

"Locke? No, not tonight," Diana told him quickly. "Though I hate seeing him treated like some kind of royalty. That monster. Hiding in plain sight."

"That 'monster' is the financial wellspring for half the fortunes currently represented in this room," her father said. "Nothing can be done for the time being, unfortunately. My advice, again, is to forget about him."

She knew it was a request she could never grant, but for her father's sake she bowed primly. "I shall try."

"You know, given how hard you fought to have Bruce Wayne included on the guest list, I'm rather surprised that I haven't seen the two of you together all evening. If it weren't for your rather amusing slip of the tongue just now, I would think you'd forgotten about him all together."

"Just like you wanted," Diana murmured. It was hard to keep the bitterness from her voice at the mention of Bruce. The memory of his rejection still burned just as freshly as the night before, no matter how hard she tried to shove it down.

Zachary said nothing for a long time. Then, in a complete non sequitur, he said, "Did I ever tell you that I was engaged when I met your mother?"

"I _beg_ your pardon?"

An arched brow. "I suppose not. And it's not the kind of thing your mother would have cared to bring up either."

"Engaged? To whom?"

"A beautiful woman by the name of Lisbeth Wingate. Well, back then it was Lisbeth Copperfield but that's neither here nor there. Ours was the sort of engagement that is only now beginning to lose popularity with you young people. Arranged by my parents and hers as the sensible union of two very powerful families."

"I went to primary school with a Wingate!" Diana said with a start.

"Lisbeth's daughter, from a later and more successful betrothal" Zachary supplied.

"And you broke off your engagement because of Mother?"

"Yes, I did. I fell in love. And even though your mother was a foreigner with no money and no estate and certainly no social standing, I found that I cared not a whit. My heart had entered the equation and I was powerless to do anything but follow it wherever it led."

"How fortunate indeed," Diana remarked.

Zachary didn't fully agree. "Don't misunderstand. It was a stupid decision by any objective or rational standard. Our name suffered for decades because of the dishonor I brought by canceling the engagement. We lost money and respect, and my cousin Liam even lost an engagement as a direct result of the scandal that ensued. And your mother never did acclimate to our world. Oh, she could dress the part and say the right things. She even founded a certain organization that you seem to have commandeered quite handily, my little Amazon." There was a note of wistfulness in his smile. "But to her, this was never. . . home."

This was not news to Diana, and she had known that behind closed doors her mother and father were certainly no fairy tale lovers. Still, she felt compelled to ask a question that she had never asked her father before. "Do you think you made the right choice? Marrying mum?"

He smiled, fatherly and loving. "Any choice that gave you to me could never be wrong, Diana."

She smiled back at him. "And the moral of the story?" Though she thought she already knew. Her father was full of surprises after all, it seemed.

Zachary Princeton spread his hands, the picture of innocence. "Just a story. Nothing more. Now go, dance and enjoy the party. Locke or no Locke, I promise you will have a night that you'll never forget."

Diana couldn't have agreed more.

* * *

**To be continued**

* * *

**AN: **Well, that was a long, long break and I do apologize to those who were hoping to see a more timely update. Hobbies like, in my case, fanfiction and art, are often the first to be cut when things like work and school become too pressing. However, I will finish the damned thing if it takes me another five years (it won't! definitely won't). To those who have been reading all this time, just know that I appreciate all the feedback and advice I've gotten from you and the fandom community at large over the years.

As for this chapter, writing and revising it has really driven home the point that I desperately need a beta. My ability to self-correct is abysmal, and I can read over the same sloppy sentence a million times, marveling at how beautiful it sounds in my head. If anyone would like to beta, I'd certainly appreciate it. In the meantime, a blanket apology for the typos/grammatical oopsies/historical blunders*****/etc. that I missed.

That said, I really wish the exposition-to-action ratio in this chapter had been a bit higher, and all I can do is promise more explosions and kung fu fighting and the like for next chapter. So. . .stay tuned. And know that even though I am an adult in graduate school I still do the happy dance when I see reviews in my inbox.

Til next time,

-C

*****my 'research' for the Princeton Ball, for instance, amounted to little more than a few period dramas on Netflix and a wikipedia article. tsk tsk.


	13. Concilium Justitia

"This is can't end well," Lois muttered. The evening had taken a sharp drop in temperature and seeing the fog of her own breath hang in the frigid air only intensified her scowl.

She and Clark walked side-by-side up the walkway to the home of Carmine Falcone. It was surprisingly modest, considering that its owner had once been rumored to be the most dangerous man in Metropolis.

Not anymore though. Cameron Locke had seen to that.

And while the dwelling was no mansion, it was certainly a far sight better than anyplace either of them would ever live. The architecture, especially the windows, added a regal charm that Clark found fascinating. His mind was gaily contemplating whether he should have his own rather drafty windows replaced when Lois jabbed him in the arm.

"I'm talking to you."

"No, you're talking to yourself. And rather pessimistically I might add. Cheer up, Falcone's not going to fancy an evening chat with a downer, no matter how pretty."

Lois pretended to ignore the compliment. "He's not going to fancy an evening chat period. He's going to get very angry, as a matter of fact. Probably kill you. Worse, kill me."

"So dramatic," Clark couldn't help but tut as he reached for the knocker and gave the door four solid raps, each one reverberating through the twilit air.

The following silence seemed interminable. The house resonated a stillness that made Clark wonder how anyone could have ever lived there. There were no vibrations, no movements. . .nothing.

Lois tugged on his sleeve. "Maybe my information was wrong. I don't think anyone's lived here for at least-"

The door opened. Just an inch. Just enough for an eye to peer out of the darkness on the other side.

"What do you want?" The voice was low and hoarse and male. Weary, with a not-unsubtle trace of New York in the w's.

Clark gave Lois a reassuring glance before answering. "My name is Clark Kent and this is my associate Lois-"

The door opened just a fraction further, revealing a bit more of the face that the eye belonged to. Haggard, wrinkled, and gray.

It also revealed the barrel of a long revolver that was pointed right at Clark's stomach. Surprisingly the hand that held it remained absolutely steady.

The voice spoke again. "What do you want?" Each word as its own word.

Clark spread his slowly and nonthreateningly. "We want to speak with Carmine Falcone.

"Why?"

"Well-"

"Because we can help him," Lois chimed in.

This earned them another incremental opening of the door. The man behind it stared at her as if he'd assumed she were a mute decorative statue on the porch. The gun stayed pointed at Clark but it was Lois who now commanded his attention. "What, precisely, do you think I need your help with."

_Where to begin_, Lois thought. _You're a shriveled old man living alone in a drafty, cold house who hasn't had visitors in so long he doesn't know not to greet them with a loaded gun._ As she often did when harboring uncharitable thoughts about someone (a not infrequent occurrence) she arched an eyebrow, cocked her head to the side, and said the thing most likely to spur her target to action.

"You need to settle a score, Mr. Falcone."

He let out raspy, bronchial chuckle. "I know more about settling scores than a pretty little thing like you could even imagine. Should even _hear_ about."

"If we could just come in-" Clark started to say before Falcone silenced him with a wave of the gun. "Shaddup four-eyes. The lady's talking."

More miffed than frightened, Clark nonetheless kept silent.

"There is," Lois, continued nervously, "one score that you have not settled. I think we both know that it is Cameron Locke.

His eyes glinted dangerously. "Been a while since I've heard that name."

"He's not as active here in the States" Lois said. "Not anymore. But he's been very busy overseas, I assure you."

Falcone let out a harrumph. "You two associates of his?"

"Of course not. We're reporters and we want to see Locke brought to justice. We think you can help."

The old man seemed to find this answer satisfactory. "You'd said different and I'd have gutshot you both and let you bleed in the cold." His gun dropped and disappeared into the folds of his robe. "Come on in. We can talk in the study. Provided the useless one keeps his mouth shut."

Clark shot Lois an aggrieved look but she ignored it. If Falcone wanted to abuse him a bit in exchange for vital information. . .well, it wasn't as if Clark was unaccustomed to the occasional putdown. She'd seen to that.

They followed Falcone inside, Lois taking lead and Clark trailing behind like a wounded puppy. Her first instinct was to take off her coat but it was readily apparent that the interior of the Falcone home was only fractionally warmer than the wintry outdoors. It was also very dark, the only light coming from half-draped windows along the front of the house. Carmine moved silently in his slippers but the click-clack of her heels and Clark's sensible shoes seemed to echo down every corridor of the gloomy abode.

"This way," Falcone practically wheezed as he ushered them into the study. Even in the dim light, Lois could sense that something terribly amiss about the room. "Bookshelves," she murmured. And indeed, the room was lined with them. Wall to wall and floor to very-expansive-ceiling.

"But no books," finished Clark, gazing forlornly at the empty shelves.

Falcone took a seat on the larger of the two sofas, leaving only a single-cushioned seat for his guests. "Your boyfriend's just terribly observant," Falcone said, rolling his eyes. The sarcasm brought out his New 'Yawkah' accent like nothing else.

Lois gave a thin smile as she sat down next to Clark on what was most assuredly a one-person seat. His broad shoulders left her little room to comfortably arrange herself, an interesting observation that spiraled into all sorts of even more interesting ones. Even as hard as he tried to slouch, Lois could feel the solid muscle of his frame. All that work in the fields as a boy, perhaps? Either way, in this cold, strange room she found the feel of him oddly comforting. It wasn't the first unprofessional thought she'd harbored about the farmboy and it probably wouldn't be the last, but she figured as long she remained collected and kept her thoughts from showing, Clark would never be the wiser.

Clark, shifting to accommodate Lois as much as possible, merely wondered why she kept looking at him like that. It was a bit unsettling.

"This study wasn't mine," Falcone said. "It was my wife's." He gestured to the portrait hanging high on the wall behind him. High enough that Lois hadn't even noticed it when entering. It was a painting that almost redeemed the embarrassing lack of literature on the bookshelves. Lois couldn't tear her eyes away.

"Beautiful, wasn't she." Falcone's voice was tinged with genuine sorrow. Clark and Lois could only nod. Beautiful was the height of understatement when describing the woman pictured. All of the high marks were there: creamy complexion full, red lips, piercing green eyes, and strawberry blond tresses that fell in soft waves around her shoulders. Somehow, the whole was greater still than the sum of its parts. It was vibrant. Dynamic. It looked like frozen moment in the woman's life. A smile just beginning, the glint of warmth and familiarity in her eyes.

"My beloved Scarlett," Falcone rasped. "I loved her like I have never loved another woman. And in the days when we met, there were plenty to choose from. She put them all to shame. Not just with her beauty, but with her confidence, her grace and her wisdom. My best memories are of her. My worst are of losing her. And while a part of me thanks God for the time we shared, the other wishes that she had never met a bastard like me. That she had lived and loved long past me, untainted by the filth these petty turf wars." He stopped to catch his breath. Then, a surprising question. "Have you ever been in love?" Given that he'd seemed perfectly happy thus far pretending Clark was invisible, there was little doubt as to which of the reporters Falcone was addressing.

Still, Lois leaned forward, sure she'd misheard. "I'm sorry?"

"Love. Absolute, unconditional love. Have you ever felt that for another person?"

Unbidden, an image of the man sitting next to her sprang into her mind. It was so startling and unexpected that she gasped out loud_. Clark?_ How absurdly. . .impossible. "No," she answered a little bit louder than necessary. "No I most certainly have not."

"Well, if you had loved someone, you might have smallest inkling of what it would be like to lose them. And if you had lost them, you might have a fractionally more substantial idea of the misery I have endured since Scarlett's death. I know who it was that nailed her into that lawn you just walked past a few minutes ago." He stopped, interrupted by a coughing fit that wracked his entire body.

"Are you alright?" Clark ventured.

"No, I'm dying," Falcone wheezed. "But then aren't we all." He coughed a few more times and then continued. "Some of us. . .some of us die before our time. I've seen it happen. I've. . .made it happen. Cameron Locke made it happen to my Scarlett. If whatever he did to put you on his trail was half as bad, then I believe you and I have something in common. I will cooperate with your investigation." He chuckled. "Help. . .bring Locke to justice," echoing Lois's earlier words.

* * *

Outside, a rather eclectic group of individuals waited sat in a large carriage just a ways down the road. Three men and a woman. Their ages ranged from mid-twenties to mid-thirties, with the woman bringing up the youngest end of the spectrum and a man named Maxwell Lord at the older. He was the leader of the group. Not because he was the oldest but because he was the one who had assembled them and managed their tasks.

This particular task was a bit puzzling for his subordinates, but the woman, lithe and athletic with gold-flecked auburn hair, was the first to voice it aloud. "They could be in there for hours," she said.

Maxwell Lord raised his head, unsurprised by the show of frustration. "Patience."

"Patience?" the Widow Holden repeated dubiously. "I'm freezing." She wore the same basic uniform as the men: a dark gray overcoat and matching tunic with an obsidian clasp fashioned into the letters CJ secured at the throat. As far as Maxwell Lord knew or cared, her first name was Widow. Certainly there was some tragic story behind the appellation but then, couldn't the same be said for all of them?

The Widow Holden had once asked one of her teammates the meaning of the letters. Circumspect Juveniles? Curious Juxtaposition? Crown Justice?

Said colleague, seated just across from her and playing idly with the emerald ring on his finger, had laughed and shaken his head. "Now you're throwing nonsense words together," John had said. "It's Latin. The C is for Concilium. The J, Justitia. This is a very special organization you've become a part of."

The Widow Holden didn't know that the throwing about the anachronistic trappings of a dead language qualified any organization as 'special'. Nor did she feel particularly special on this particular stakeout, chasing around a couple of reporters. She looked at John, secure in the knowledge that he wouldn't judge her minor insubordination.

He flashed a smile back, just brief enough that Lord didn't catch it. Then, to Lord. "She does have a point."

"The only point Ms. Holden makes to me is that perhaps my superiors were a bit hasty in allowing women to serve as active field agents." He was referring to Abraham Lincoln, 16th president of the United States and founder of The Elite, the more-or-less official name for government unit they all served. Lincoln, having been impressed with the accomplishments of female operatives on both sides of the Civil War, had mandated that female candidates be recruited for each 'generation' of agents.

"Luckily for us, ol' Lincoln was more of the openminded sort," spoke up the last man. Tall and slender with a runner's build and a shock of orange-red hair. Wallace West was no doubt suffering the most. Sitting still was no doubt hell on a hyperkinetic personality like his.

Still, he was sticking up for both John and the Widow Holden. Lincoln's edict hadn't only mandated that women be accepted into the ranks of the Elite. It had also opened the doors to African-Americans. John Stewart was the son of freed slaves who had been fortunate enough to eke out a living on the property their deceased master bequeathed them. How exactly he caught the eye of a federal recruiter was a mystery to his teammates, but rumors abounded that he had singlehandedly retrieved a girl, the daughter of a black minister, who had been kidnapped by one of the Ku Klux Klan derivatives that continued to plague certain southerly parts of the U.S. None of the 12 kidnappers. . .alleged kidnappers, were ever found. It was as if they had been erased from the face of the earth. No more young black girls were kidnapped in the area and John Stewart found himself with the chance to do more with his considerable skills than sharecrop for the rest of his life.

Maxwell Lord knew all of this and, looking between John Stewart and the Widow Holden, knew that before him were some of the best intelligence operatives in the entire country. Despite his personal misgivings about women and coloreds, he was above all a rationalist and an empiricist, and empirically, John and the Widow had more than earned their place on his team.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Ms. Holden, you've proven your worth a dozen times over. As have you, John, And you, Wallace. I suppose I could be more forthcoming." His contrition cost little and more or less mollified the other three, so Lord didn't mind using it. "As you may know, Clark Kent has been the focus of our organization for some time now. All of you have remarkable skills or you wouldn't be here. But there is a very small percentage of humans, less than one percent of one percent of the population, who manifest abilities that could well and truly be deemed supernatural.

John, Wallace, and the Widow Holden exchanged glances. They had all heard the rumors about a reporter in Metropolis with genuine superpowers, but gossip whispered in the dark corners of an organization like theirs often proved to be more fiction than fact.

It was John who spoke up. "And we think Clark Kent is one of those individuals?"

"We _know_ that he is," corrected Lord. "There are files on that young man thick enough to stop a bullet. He would probably be in custody right now being poked and prodded by the Starlab whitecoats if it wasn't for one thing."

"Which is?" John wasted no time asking.

"Somehow, our superman has managed to cross paths with one of the few people who represent a greater priority for us than he does. Cameron Locke. I've managed to convince the powers that be that it would be best to observe from a distance for now. To wait."

"Makes sense," said Wallace. "But I thought Locke was the Brits' problem now."

"Make no mistake, from what we know he's everyone's problem. Fortunately, it appears as though one of the Brits will be hopping to our side of the pond very soon."

British Intelligence?" The Widow began skeptically. "But I thought-"

"Not a government agent," Lord amended. "A private detective. British high command is practically fawning over Locke's weapons systems. They've shut down all official inquiries into his more sordid dealings and they've stopped talking to us on the subject altogether. From what I can gather, the only man in all of England who is pursuing Locke is the detective."

"How did you discover this again?" John wanted to know.

"Intercepted telegrams, not that it really matters. The important thing is-" Maxwell Lord froze midsentence, which was a true rarity for a man so fond of the sound of his own voice. "What on earth-"

"I see them too," Wallace said.

John and the Widow Holden craned to see an automobile turning around the bend of street. It was large and completely covered, with a softly-purring engine that would have been lost on a busier day.

It was. .. wrong. Despite the growing popularity of motorized transport, they were rarities this far out of the city. Further, a clunky, unsightly machine like that, no matter how nice the engine, could never belong to someone who lived in such a neighborhood. The slow, unsure manner in which it traveled down the street was a final giveaway. The driver had never been here before. He was looking for something.

Lord's eyes narrowed as the automobile stopped right in front of Falcone's house. Then it ambled down just a bit further, coming to a rest on the side of the road. The engine came to a stop.

"He's going to wait there all day," John said, once again fiddling with his ring.

The Widow Holden disagreed. "_They_ are going to make their move any second now." Her weapon of choice was not as small as a ring, but it was certainly more concealed.

And she was right. The automobile's doors opened and four men stepped out on the icy ground. They were rough-looking types. Solidly built and clad in sorts of overcoats that could hide anything from a pistol to a lumber axe.

One of them stepped to the front of the group. He said something and their hands disappeared into their coats to come out with pistols.

"Well," Lord muttered, his eyes piercing the Widow Holden. "It seems we're not in for a simple stakeout after all."

She smiled.

* * *

"Something the matter, Clark?" Lois asked, noticing the distracted look on his face.

"Not. . ." he seemed confused, as if trying to focus on many things at once. "I thought I heard something."

"_I_ heard nothing," Lois said impatiently. She turned back to Falone. "Please, continue."

Falcone harrumphed a bit, clearly put off by Clark's lack of attention, but true to his word the story continued.

"I don't know where the man who calls himself Cameron Locke came from, but I can tell you that the man he took that name from was about the most hopeless waste of pure air and fresh water I'd ever seen. He was a con man and a two-bit thug and I faintly remember having him beaten off of my porch when he had the temerity to try to join my organization. If he'd glanced at my wife one more time, I might very well have killed him."

Lois gawked at him. "You-you mean there are two Cameron Lockes?"

"No. Listen to what I said. I _said,_ that there was one Cameron Locke. He was a nobody destined for obscurity at the bottom of the goddamn river until someone else made him disappear and became him."

"Who?" Clark pressed.

Falcone shrugged as best he could, painfully yet defiantly. "He's a ghost. I'd never seen him before and anybody with that kind of muscle behind him, I'd know. By face. I can count on one hand-" He stopped. "Well, let's just say there aren't many people who even know about Locke. The real Locke. But when this new guy showed up with that name, Cameron Locke became infamous. Started buying up all the shorefront properties. Then he set his sights on all the vice joints. Mind you, I wasn't a part of the Metropolis. . ." He put up air quotes "'underworld' at the time. But I was planning on it. So it certainly caught my eye when the Boxcar Boys-" another pause. "Low-level street gang. Anyway, they aimed to send Locke a message. Firebombed a bar he'd just taken over. You know 'get outta town' type stuff'. So Locke sits back and sends his army after them. Except it's not an army. It's one guy. The Joker. White skin, mouth all cut up, horrible, horrible laugh. This barbarian just takes things to a whole new level. The Boxcar Boys vanished off the face of the earth for a few days until they were found nailed to the roof of their own clubhouse. All cut up every which way. Parts missing. One of 'em was still alive but the poor bastard probably wished he wasn't. Didn't have much of a face left and sure enough, he blew his brains out with a pistol first chance he got. Not before allowing the story of this. . .Joker to spread of course. Just as I'm sure Locke intended."

"Let me guess, no one knows who this Joker is either?" Lois asked.

"It's like they popped out of the ground, smellin' of fire and brimstone. Investigators turn up nothing and all anyone can see is the dead bodies in their wake. In his first month, the Joker wiped three different syndicates off the map. Every day, a new body. People dying in ways haven't even been thought of since the goddamn Inquisition. From the Boxcar Boys all the way to. . ." His voice faltered.

"Scarlett?" Clark offered.

For that moment, Falcone smiled the smile of a man who had once loved a woman more than anything else in his world. "Yes. My beloved Scarlett."

* * *

The four men ran through a checklist in their heads. They took note of the architecture. The windows. The door. They ticked off points down the list and nodded in absolute agreement. Complete certainty. This was the Falcone residence. The reporters were inside.

They'd done this many times before. The visual sweep of the street. Pace brisk, hands on their pistols. In most cases, residents opened the door a bit puzzled but otherwise perfectly courteous. They died seconds later, along with anyone else in the house. All in all, a process that tended to go very smoothly.

"Excuse me, gentlemen?"

The four men turned as one at the sound of a young woman's voice. How exactly she'd gotten on the street so fast was a mystery. Her attire was odd as well. The leader stiffened and fixed her with a stony expression. "Stop there. Where did you come from?"

She kept walking, hands unfolding from the folds of her overcoat. She smiled. "Lovely day, isn't it?"

"Stop!" he barked again.

The woman kept walking, her pace brisk and smooth.

"Waste her," came the whispered command as the leader raised his own pistol and fired.

Seemingly without breaking stride, the woman leaned out of the way as the round flew past her cheek. Then she really moved, closing the last remaining meters in less than a second and leaping to deliver a full, two-footed kick. He went flying back, landing painfully face up with the woman standing on his chest. She swept the nearest man's from under him and danced just enough to the other side to trap the third man's gun hand and snap the elbow backward at an unnatural angle. She broke his nose with an elbow strike and kneed him in the groin. The last man tried to fix her with a shot of his pistol but she whipped around into a savage roundhouse kick that caught the side of his knee, destroying the joint. She trapped her thumb into the trigger guard of his pistol, preventing him from firing while it was pointed at her face. With a final wrenching motion she broke his wrist and kept the gun while the rest of him crumpled into a heap.

The Widow Holden turned just in time to see John lower his ring and adjust one of the dials, muting the emerald glow within. "I had it under control," she said.

"I know." He tapped the ring. "But just in case."

"We need to move these men right now. Someone could have heard that gunshot."

"On it." Wallace had shown up quick as a flash. "We'll question this lot in the carriage. Shouldn't be putting up too much of a fight after taking that kind of beating. From a woman no less.

The Widow Holden knelt to where the presumptive leader was slowly forcing himself into a seated position. She said, "I wouldn't think about trying your luck with me again. Or trying to hide the truth from us."

His mouth curled into a defiant sneer. "Lady-"

"Or," she continued, her fist closing around the index finger of his right hand. "I'll fix you so you'll never hold a gun again." To her it was a flick of the wrist to beind the digit back but for him it was an avalanche of pain.

"Having fun Shayera?" John chuckled softly as Wallace unceremoniously dumped the first of the assassin's into the carriage that Lord had so obligingly brought to bear. Of the group, he was the only one that knew her first name and, when telling him, she'd asked that he not reveal it. Still, when it was just the two of them he preferred 'Shayera' to 'Mrs. Holden' or the odious 'Widow Holden'.

She smiled innocently, working to secure her victim's hands behind his back. "For a simple stakeout? Absolutely."

* * *

Lois could sense the interview coming to an end. It was clear that there had something cathartic for the old man in telling two perfect strangers his tale. And quite a tale it was. Still, she could sense that their time was drawing to a close. There wasn't much more that Falcone could help them with and it was evident that reliving the experiences as he recounted them was taking quite the toll.

"One more question?" she suggested.

Falcone answered with a wave of his hand. "Go ahead."

"One of the first properties Locke purchased was a junkyard. Curiously, he didn't attempt to resell it or convert it into a successful business. Do you know anything about that?"

Falcone shook his head. "I know about the junkyard. Kids used to play over there back in the day. Hide out in the railcars and whatnot. It was always dangerous of course but then kids started disappearing around there. Whatever Locke was doing over there he kept it hush hush and probably killed more than few people to keep it that way. Beyond that I don't think I can-"

Clark suddenly bolted out of his seat, alarm written all over his features.

"Clark!" Lois reprimanded him. "Honestly-"

"That was a gunshot! Surely you heard it."

Falcone rolled his eyes. "Jesus, not this again."

Clark's jaw set stubbornly however and he ran to the front door, flinging it open and running down the steps. He knew he'd heard a gunshot, Lois' suspicions be damned.

"I'm so sorry," said the street's lone resident below the streetlamp. A woman with dark red hair and green eyes. Her clothes were odd, almost like a uniform of some sort. But she seemed harmless enough and she was standing next to an automobile.

Clark looked at her, frustrated and confused. "What happened out here? I could have sworn I heard a gunshot."

She patted the hood of the automobile apologetically. "My car. I do apologize, sir. She's a beauty on the outside but the on the inside. . .her valves are practically worn away. When the engine backfires it produces the most awful commotion." She paused. "Is that what you heard?"

Clark didn't know what to think, but he could feel his cheeks growing warm. Perhaps all this Locke business had gotten him a bit too paranoid. "It's. . .certainly possible."

The woman popped the hood of the car. "I don't suppose you know anything about these infernal engines?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm afraid I don't ma'am."

"Oh, that's alright. I'll figure it out. And I promise no more gunshots."

"Right. Of course." Clark laughed with her politely or a few moments then turned to head back up the stairs. "I'd best be going back in. Good luck with your engine ma'am."

"Why thank you."

* * *

Shayera Holden watched him go back into the house before walking around the other side of the automobile to wear John was waiting, arms casually crossed. "Quick thinking," he said approvingly. "I was afraid Kent might pick up on our little scuffle out here."

"The files said there was a strong possibility of enhanced hearing capabilities," Shayera said, somewhat basking in the compliment. "Not too bright though. I'm surprised he bought that story."

John just chuckled, offering her an arm. "He and the other reporter will be out soon. Shall we?"

They walked back to the carriage in which they'd arrived and scant minutes later the four agents and the four prisoners were gone as if they'd never been there at all.

* * *

Lois met Clark just at foot of the hallway. "The interview is over and Falcone has retired for the night," she informed him. Then, with no small amount of sarcasm, "I don't suppose you found anything amiss?"

He sighed. "I'm afraid not. My apologies, for the disruption Lois. I'm. . ." he cocked his head to the side, brow furrowed. "'not too bright', it would seem."

"Yes, it would," Lois said as they walked outside together. But Clark was only half-listening. His suspicious gaze came to rest first on the unoccupied automobile and then on the far-off carriage rapidly making its way toward the city lights of Metropolis.

* * *

**AN**: Sigh. So yes, I know this chapter is a bit of a filler. I posted it because I felt like it had taken a while just to get this scene written and I scarcely started on the daring raid that Bruce, Andre, and Diana are set to embark on. Still, this mini-chapter introduces this universe's version of the League (the Elite) and some other of my favorites (versions of Hawkgirl, Green Lantern, and Flash, with a little Max Lord thrown in). None of them will be major characters but as a group they do have a very important role to play in the story. That said, I think I can safely say no more new characters. The major players are all in place and set to clash with explosive results.

Other thoughts: I had a bit too much fun the parts where Clark, sure that something was amiss, dashes outside to find an innocent scenario. Then he has to sheepishly go back to an annoyed Lois. Naïve farmboys. . .Also, Lois being unwilling to admit this major crush she has on Clark and channeling those unwelcome emotions into unnecessary abuse of her hapless underling.

PS: Not that anyone cares but most of the time I was writing this, I had the song 'Back to Tokyo' by Jia Peng Fang on repeat. Beautiful, beautiful song.

I'll do my best to get the next chap out soon. Til then, best regards and thanks to everyone who's taken the time to read and give me feedback on this fic.

-C


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